Then the woman saw her lover,
    For one instant saw his face,
  Down the precipice slow sinking,
  Looking up at her, and sending
    Through the shimmering, sunny space
  Look of love and subtle triumph,
  As he plucked the tiny blossom
    In its airy, dizzy place,—­
  Plucked it, smiling, as if danger
    Were not danger to the hand
    Of true lover in love’s land.

  In her hands her face she buried,
    At her heart the blood grew chill;
  In that one brief moment crowded
  The whole anguish of a lifetime,
    Made her every pulse stand still. 
  Like one dead she sat and waited,
  Listening to the stirless silence,
    Ages in a second, till,
  Lightly leaping, came her lover,
    And, still smiling, laid the sweet
    Snow-white blossom at her feet.

  “O my love! my love!” she shuddered,
    “Bloomed that flower by Death’s own spell? 
  Was thy life so little moment,
  Life and love for that one blossom
    Wert thou ready thus to sell? 
  O my precious love! for ever
  I shall keep this faded token
    Of the hour which came to tell,
  In such voice I scarce dared listen,
    How thy life to me had grown
    So much dearer than my own!”

On their way home from the picnic late in the afternoon, they came at the base of the mountain to a beautiful spot where two little streams met.  The two streams were in sight for a long distance:  one shining in a green meadow; the other leaping and foaming down a gorge in the mountain-side.  A little inn, which was famous for its beer, stood on the meadow space, bounded by these two streams; and the picnic party halted before its door.  While the white foamy glasses were clinked and tossed, Mercy ran down the narrow strip of land at the end of which the streams met.  A little thicket of willows grew there.  Standing on the very edge of the shore, Mercy broke off a willow wand, and dipped it to right in the meadow stream, to the left in the stream from the gorge.  Then she brought it back wet and dripping.

“It has drank of two waters,” she cried, holding it up.  “Oh, you ought to see how wonderful it is to watch their coming together at that point!  For a little while you can trace the mountain water by itself in the other:  then it is all lost, and they pour on together.”  This picture, also, she set in a frame of verse one day, and gave it to Stephen.

  On a green point of sunny land,
    Hemmed in by mountains stern and high,
  I stood alone as dreamers stand,
    And watched two streams that hurried by.

  One ran to east, and one to south;
    They leaped and sparkled in the sun;
  They foamed like racers at the mouth,
    And laughed as if the race were won.

  Just on the point of sunny land
    A low bush stood, like umpire fair,
  Waving green banners in its hand,
    As if the victory to declare.