as beating. And I was old
enough to know that in time it would conquer me, and drag me to her feet
like a fettered slave before his master. My will seemed, in a measure,
paralyzed, and I made no effort to escape. Something warned me that it
would be useless. And so I drifted, living in a careless sort of lotos
dream, which I could have wished would last forever. Now there were
scented, joyful days, when we strolled through dales and wooded hollows,
listening to Nature's great orchestra as it played its never-ending
symphony. Perfect nights, when the heavy air would be redolent of the
honeysuckles' wafted souls and the breath of sleepy roses. From the
cabins in the locust grove would float the tinkling of the banjo, the
untrained guffaw of the negro men, and the wild, half-barbaric notes of
an old-time melody. And the stars would shine in glory above us, and we
would sit on the steps and talk of the things we both loved. The old
folks on the settee would get sleepy and go in, and we would sit there
by the hour, and still my secret was my own. I think she guessed it, but
this blissful existence was too sweet to be ended by some foolish words
which had better remain forever in my heart, even though they ate it
out.

XIV

August came. It was half gone ere I realized that she would go back to
Bellwood early in September. How and where the days had gone I could not
tell. Week after week had slipped by, and, forgetting that time was
passing, I lived in my fool's paradise, and gave no thought to the days
that were speeding away on silken wings. Harvest had come and gone; the
fierce heat of a Kentucky summer made the days sultry, but the nights
were good to live. I had lived through it all as in a kind of waking
dream. But in the worship-chamber of my heart I had built an altar, and
on it was placed the first and only love of my life. The fire which
glowed there was as pure as Easter dawn, yet it was as intense as the
still white heat you may see in a furnace. And the time was coming when
she would go away.

One night I wandered, restless, down into the tree-grown yard. We had
sat together that night, as usual, but my lips had been mute. The time
had come when there was but one thing to say, and I had resolved not to
say it. And so she had left me early, saying, in her impetuous way, that
I was unsociable. Back and forth the long avenue I paced, thinking of
the day she came home, of the many, many times we had been to