she has brought on me a living death, and in my misery you alone can give me any joy. Dear, men are not faithful so; why will you speak of her? The grave has her; her lord has heaped up marble over her; she is nothing, nothing, as the fruit 1s that rots and drops away. Why will you put her ever between yourself and me? We live, you and I; we are all alone, and the earth is above us, and we have nothing to do with it; we are alone, and we love one another———'

His eyes poured their beseeching passion into hers, his hands held her, his lips approached her; but once more she put him away from her with a look upon her face that he had never seen there.

'Ah, yes, I love you,' she said very low, and her voice seemed to him to have the very melody of the nightingales in it, so infinite a caress did it give with these three words. 'But we were happy—why did you speak?—it was better as we were. Do not touch me; it is ungenerous; let me alone, let us live as we have done. Never will I forsake you; but never must you make me ashamed.'

Then she withdrew herself quickly from