I stood up, and she came to my arms like a tired bird to its nest. I bent my head, and kissed her upon the brow, the blue-veined eyelids, the perfect lips. “I love thee,” I said. “The song is old, but it is sweet. See! I wear thy color, my lady.”

The hand that had touched the ribbon upon my arm stole upwards to my lips. “An old song, but a sweet one,” she said. “I love thee. I will always love thee. My head may lie upon thy breast, but my heart lies at thy feet.”

There was joy in the haunted wood, deep peace, quiet thankfulness, a springtime of the heart, — not riotous like the May, but fair and grave and tender like the young world in the sunshine without the pines. Our lips met again, and then, with my arm around her, we moved to the