had a life
you never dreamed of--and I another life that was not in my dreams."

"You've saved me from death more than once," said Peter.

"You've done more than that," said Helen, "you've given me the only
life I've had. But a thing doesn't belong to you because you've saved
its life or given it life. It only belongs to you because you love it.
I know you belong to me. But you only know if I belong to you."

"That's not true now. You do know. And I know."

"Yes; and we know that as that belonging has nothing to do with death,
it can't have anything either to do with the saving or even the giving
of life. So you must never thank me, or I you. There are no thanks in
love. And that was why I couldn't bear your asking me to marry you
to-day. I thought you were thanking me."

"When you played with the seagull..."

"Yes?"

"How you loved it!"

"Yes."

"I looked to see how you felt when you loved a thing. I wanted so much
to be the seagull in your hands."

"When I touched it I was touching you."

She put his hand to her breast and whispered, "I love birds."

He smiled. "I knew you loved them; and best free. All birds must fly in
their own air."

"Yes," she said. "But their freedom only means their power to choose
what air they'll fly in. And every choice is a cage too."

"I shall leave the door open, child."

"I shall never fly out," said Helen.

"You talked of going away."

"Yes. But not from you."

"Am I to go with you always, following chance and making no plans?"

"Will you? You are the only plan I ever made. Will you leave everything
else but me to chance? Perhaps it will lead us all over the earth; and
perhaps after all we shall not go very far. But I never could see
ahead, except one thing."

"What was it?"

"The mill-door and you in your old blue gown. And for seven days I've
stopped seeing that. I haven't it to steer by. Will you chance it?"

"Must you be playing with meanings even in dreams? Don't you
know--don't you know that for a woman who loves, and is not sure that
she is loved, her days and nights are all chances, every minute she
lives is a chance? It might be...it might not be...oh, those ghosts of
joy and pain! they are almost too much to bear. For the joy isn't pure
joy, or the pain pure pain, and she cannot come to rest in either of
them. Sometimes the joy is nearly as great as though she knew; yet at
the instant she tries to take it, it looks at her with the eyes of
dou