r what
mysterious sin he had committed--"

"Yes," laughed Beatrice, "he looked a terribly depraved old tree, I must
admit--but don't you think that when we have arrived at the discussion
of the mysterious sins of trees it is time to start home?"

"Yes, indeed," said Antony gaily, "let us change the subject to the
vices of flowers."

From which conversation it will be seen that Antony's mind was still
revolving with unconscious attraction around the mystery of Art. Was it
some far-travelled sea-wind bringing faint strains from that sunken
harp, strains too subtle for the ear, and even unrecognised by the mind?

CHAPTER XIX

LAST TALK ON THE HILLS

Beatrice's prayer had been answered. Antony had come back to her. She
was necessary to him once more. The old look was in his eyes, the old
sound in his voice. One day as they were out together she was so
conscious of this happiness returned that she could not forbear speaking
of it--with an inner feeling that it was better to be happy in silence.

What is that instinct in us which tells us that we risk our happiness in
speaking of it? Happiness is such a frightened thing that it flies at
the sound of its own name. And yet of what shall we speak if not our
happiness? Of our sorrows we can keep silence, but our joys we long to
utter.

So Beatrice spoke of her great happiness to Antony, and told him too of
her old great unhappiness and her longing for death.

"What a strange and terrible dream it has been--but thank God, we are
out in the daylight at last," said Antony. "O my little Beatrice, to
think that I could have forsaken you like that! Surely if you had come
and taken me by the hands and looked deep into my eyes, and called me
out of the dream, I must have awakened, for, cruel as it was, the dream
was but part of a greater dream, the dream of my love for you--"

"But I understand it all now," he continued, "see it all. Do you
remember saying that perhaps I had never loved anything but images all
my life? It was quite true. Since I can remember, when I thought I loved
something I was sure to find sooner or later that I loved less the
object itself than what I could say about it, and when I had said
something beautiful, something I could remember and say over and over to
myself, I cared little if the object were removed. The spiritual essence
of it seemed to have passed over into my words, and I loved the
reincarnation best. Only at last have I awakened t