But it seems to me, that the pitifulness with which we ought to regard each other in the horror of being the offspring of a love we do not love, in the danger of wandering ever, the children of light, in the midst of darkness, immeasurably surpasses the pitifulness demanded by the fancy that we are the creatures of but a day.

Moved in his soul by the sound of his own words, but himself the harp upon which the fingers of a mightier Nature than he knew were playing a prelude to a grander phantasy than he could comprehend, Faber caught the hand of Juliet where it gleamed white in the gathering gloom.  But she withdrew it, saying in a tone which through the darkness seemed to him to come from afar, tinged with mockery.

“You ought to have been a poet—­not a doctor, Mr. Faber!”

The jar of her apparent coolness brought him back with a shock to the commonplace.  He almost shuddered.  It was like a gust of icy wind piercing a summer night.

“I trust the doctor can rule the poet,” he said, recovering his self-possession with an effort, and rising.

“The doctor ought at least to keep the poet from falsehood.  Is false poetry any better than false religion?” returned Juliet.

“I do not quite see—­”

“Your day is not a true picture of life such as you would make it.—­Let me see!  I will give you one.—­Sit down.—­Give me time.—­’The morning is dark; the mist hangs and will not rise; the sodden leaves sink under the foot; overhead the boughs are bare; the cold creeps into bone and marrow; let us love one another!  The sun is buried in miles of vapor; the birds sit mute on the damp twigs; the gathered drizzle slowly drips from the eaves; the wood will not burn in the grate; there is a crust in the larder, no wine in the cellar:  let us love one another!’”

“Yes!” cried Faber, again seizing her hand, “let us but love, and I am content!”

Again she withdrew it.

“Nay, but hear my song out,” she said, turning her face towards the window.—­In the fading light he saw a wild look of pain, which vanished in a strange, bitter smile as she resumed.—­“’The ashes of life’s volcano are falling; they bepowder my hair; its fires have withered the rose of my lips; my forehead is wrinkled, my cheeks are furrowed, my brows are sullen; I am weary, and discontented, and unlovely:  ah, let us love one another!  The wheels of time grind on; my heart is sick, and cares not for thee; I care not for myself, and thou art no longer lovely to me; I can no more recall wherefore I desired thee once; I long only for the endless sleep; death alone hath charms:  to say, Let us love one another, were now a mockery too bitter to be felt.  Even sadness is withered.  No more can it make me sorrowful to brood over the days that are gone, or to remember the song that once would have made my heart a fountain of tears.  Ah, hah! the folly to think we could love to the end!  But I care not; the fancy served its turn; and there is a grave