"Our last day," she mused; "for we shall never be just you and I
again--never again, my friend, after we leave this rocky coast of Eden.
... I shall have hints of you in the sea-wind and the sound of the sea; in
the perfume of autumn woods, in the whisper of stirring leaves when the
white birches put on their gold crowns next year." She smiled, turning
to him, a little gravely: "When the Lesser Children return with April,
I shall not forget you, Mr. Siward, nor forget your mercy of a day on
them; nor your comradeship, nor your sweetness to me. ... Nor your charity
for me, nor all that you overlook so far in me,--under the glamour of
a spell that seems to hold you still, and that still holds me. ... I can
answer for my constancy so far, until one more spring and summer have
come and gone--until one more autumn comes, and while it lasts--as long
as any semblance of the setting remains which had once framed you; I can
answer for my constancy as long as that. ... Afterwards, the snow!--symbol
of our separation. I am to be married a year from November first."

He looked up at her in dark surprise, for he had heard that their
wedding date had been set for the coming winter.

"A year's engagement?" he repeated, unconvinced.

"It was my wish. I think that is sufficient for everybody concerned."
Then, averting her face, which had suddenly lost a little of its colour:
"A year is little enough," she said impatiently. "I--what has happened
to us requires an interval--a decent interval for its burial. ... Death
is respectable in any form. What dies between you and me can have no
resurrection under the snow. ... So I bring to the burial my tribute--a
year of life, a year of constancy, my friend; symbol of an eternity I
could have given you had I been worth it." She looked up, flushed, the
forced smile stamped on lips still trembling. "Sentiment in such a woman
as I! 'A spectacle for Gods and men,' you are saying--are you not?
And perhaps sentiment with me is only an ancient instinct, a latent
ancestral quality for which I, ages later, have no use." She was
laughing easily. "No use for sentiment, as our bodies have no use for
that fashionable little cul-de-sac, you know, though wise men say it
once served its purpose, too. ... Stephen Siward, what do you think of me
now?"

"I am learning," he replied simply.

"What, if you please?"

"Learning a little about what I am losing."

"You mean--me?"

"Yes."

She bent forward i