arm, as she still stood gazing at him, and made a movement, a hungry and pleading movement, as though to draw her closer to him. "I love you," he repeated, inadequately.
A soft and luminous beauty crept into her face with its tragic little hollow under either cheek-bone; it seemed to suffuse and renew and transform it as spring itself transforms the world. She raised her hands slowly, almost mournfully, as though it cost her a great effort, until they rested on his shoulders.
"I am not worthy of it," she said, with a break in her voice that was almost a sob. She would have said more, but her speech was silenced by his movement, a movement which brought her trembling into his arms.
"I have always loved you," she whispered, weakly.
"And you would go back with me?" he pleaded.
"Anywhere," she answered, as she raised her wistfully smiling lips to his. "To the end of the world!"
Some wordless languor of surrender left the suddenly saddened lips still parted, and caused her heavy eyelids to droop over unquestioning and capitulating eyes. It was an elemental and absolute relinquishment, as quiet and yet as complete as the surrender to Death itself,
