"She laughs more than she sighs, but I have seen her sad . . so sad. . . ."
And so this is why he has taken notice of me; this is why he has sought my society—because I am a plain likeness of, because I reminded him of her. My hair, too, is rich brown; and I have green eyes, while hers are grey—not much difference there; and I used to have some dimples, I think, not so very long ago.
"And does she love you?"
"I will tell you that when you tell me what you have promised to tell."
"And you love her?" I ask, while a bitter, jealous pain creeps about my heart, and stabs it through and through, while every pulse of my body seems to stand still awaiting his answer. . . .
"Do I not? God knows!"
"You are a brave man," I say, smiling with pale lips. "Are you not afraid to risk your life's happiness so utterly?"
"Is any man wise who loves? But I am not afraid: she is honest to the core, and could no more play one false than she could alter her innocent face."
"God send you happiness with her!" I say, gently, and rising, I go away through the silent glades, and leave him sitting there alone, with his pleasant thoughts for company, and, maybe, a pictured girl-face to murmur fond love-words over—to press close kisses on, with a chafed, angry impatience that the warm living lips are not under his own instead of the silent painted ones.
