heaven.

Beauty indeed should be theirs--the Beauty of Nature and Love; no more
the vampire's beauty of Art.

It was strange to each how their souls lightened as the valleys of the
world folded away behind them, and the simple slopes mounted in their
path. In that pure unladen air which so exhilarated their very bodies,
there seemed some mysterious property of exhilaration for the soul also.
One might have dreamed that just to breathe on those heights all one's
days would be to grow holy by the more cleansing power of the air. With
such bright currents ever running through the brain, surely one's
thoughts would circle there white as stones at the bottom of a spring.

"O Antony," said Beatrice, "why were we so long in finding the hills?"

"We found them once before, Beatrice--do you remember?"

"Yes! You have not forgotten?" said Beatrice, with the ray of a lost
happiness in her eyes--lost, and yet could it be dawning again? There
was a morning star in Antony's face.

"And then," said Antony, "we went into the valley--the Valley of Beauty
and Death."

Beatrice pressed his hand and looked all her love at him for comfort. He
knew how precious was such a forgiveness, the forgiveness of a mother
heart broken for the child, which he, directly or indirectly, had
sacrificed,--directly as he and Wonder alone knew, indirectly by taking
them with him into the Valley of Beauty.

"Ah, Beatrice, your love is almost greater than I can bear. I am not
worthy of it. I never shall be worthy. There is something in the love of
a woman like you to which the best man is unequal. We can love--and
greatly--but it is not the same."

"We went into the valley," he cried, "and I lost you your little
Wonder--"

"_Our_ little Wonder," gently corrected Beatrice. "We found her
together, and we lost her together. Perhaps some day we shall find her
together again--"

"And do you know, Antony," Beatrice continued, "I sometimes wonder if
her little soul was not sent and so taken away all as part of a mission
to us, which in its turn is a part of the working out of her own
destiny. For life is very mysterious, Antony--"

"Alas! I had forgotten life," answered Antony with a sigh.

"Yes, dear," Beatrice went on, pursuing her thought. "I have dared to
hope that perhaps Wonder, as she was the symbol of our coming together,
was taken away just at this time because we were being drawn apart.
Perhaps it was to save our love that little Wonder died