just to ponder on; that alone is the meaning of your work."
Through the throbbing silence he stood thinking, searching his clouded mind.
"The eyes of the dying man are your own," she said. "Is it not true?"
And still he stood there, groping, probing through dim and forgotten corridors of thought toward a faint memory scarcely perceptible in the wavering mirage of the past.
"Let us talk of your career," she said, leaning back against the thick foliage,—"your success, and all that it means to you," she added, gayly.
He stood staring at the darkness: "You have set the phantoms of forgotten things stirring and whispering together somewhere within me. Now tell me more; tell me the truth."
"You are slowly reading it in my eyes," she said, laughing sweetly. "Read and remember."
The fever in him seared his sight as he stood there, his confused gaze on hers.
"Is it a threat of Hell you read in the marble?" he asked.
"No, nothing of destruction, only resurrection and hope of Paradise. Look at me closely."
"Who are you?" he whispered, closing his eyes to steady his swimming senses. "When have we met?"
"You were very young," she said, under her breath—"and I was younger,—and the rains had swollen the Canadian river so that it boiled amber at the fords; and I could not cross—alas!"
A moment of stunning silence; then her voice again: "I said nothing, not a word even of thanks when you offered aid. . . . I—was not too heavy in your arms, and the ford was soon passed,—soon passed. That was very long ago." Watching him from shadowy sweet eyes, she said:
"For a day you knew the language of my mouth and my arms around you, there in the white sun-glare of the river. For every kiss taken and retaken, given and forgiven, we must account:—for every one, even to the last.
"But you have set a monument for us both, preaching the resurrection of the soul. Love is such a little thing,—and ours endured a whole day long! Do you remember? Yet He who created love, designed that it should last a lifetime. Only the lost outlive it."
She leaned nearer:
"Tell me, you who have proclaimed the resurrection of dead souls, are you afraid to die?"
Her low voice ceased; lights broke out like stars through the foliage around them; the great glass doors of the ballroom were opening; the illuminated fountain flashed, a falling shower of silver. Through the outrush of music and laughter swelling around them, a clear far voice called, "Françoise!"
Again, close by, the voice rang faintly, "Françoise! Françoise!"
She slowly turned, staring into the brilliant glare beyond.
"Who called?" he asked, hoarsely.
"My mother," she said, listening intently. "Will you wait for me?"
His ashen face glowed again like a dull ember. She bent nearer, and caught his fingers in hers.
"By the memory of our last kiss wait for me?" she pleaded, her little hand tightening on his.
"Where ?" he said, with dry lips. "We cannot talk here!—we cannot say here the things that must be said."
"In your studio," she whispered. "Wait for me."
"Do you know the way?"
"I tell you I will come; truly I will! Only a moment with my mother—then I will be there!"
Their hands clung together an instant, then she slipped away into the crowded rooms; and after a moment Helmer followed, head bent, blinded by the glare.
"You are ill, Philip," said his host, as he took his leave. "Your face is as ghastly as that dying vaquero's,—by Heaven, man, you look like him!"
"Did you find your girl in black?" asked his hostess, curiously.
"Yes," he said; "good night."
The air was bitter as he stepped out,—bitter as death. Scores of carriage lamps twinkled as he descended the snowy sterns, and a faint gust of music swept out of the darkness, silenced as the heavy doors closed behind him.
He turned west, shivering. A long smear of light bounded his horizon as he pressed toward it and entered the sordid avenue beneath the iron arcade which
