“The loveliest hour I ever knew,” whispered the balsamine again, “was when I bloomed for the first time—­when my petals opened, and the sun came and kissed right into my heart.”

“I know, I know,” murmured the fuchsia.  “And I that am blooming now for the second time—­should I not know?  We put forth flowers again, and it is always sweet, but never like the first time of all—­nothing can ever be like that.  For it is all a mystery then; the mantle of something wonderful and unknown is over us.  And we feel it and thrill at what is coming, and ask ourselves—­will it be to-day?  Hoping and fearing—­and knowing all the time that it will come.  Never a thought of past or future, only for the hour that is upon us ... until at last it comes, it comes—­petals that blush and unfold, and all things else seem to fade away, and we melt into a glory of warmth and light.”

* * * * *

The Spirit of Joy stood quietly smiling by the bed.

The girl’s loose hair flowed like black silk over the pillow; his head was resting there.

They held each other’s hands and looked deep into each other’s eyes.  The Spirit of Joy had stood there long, but had not heard them speak a word—­only seen them lying there in silence, smiling tenderly to each other.

The sun rose slowly over the ridge of hills, but once clear of the summit, its rays shot suddenly down across the intervening landscape, in through the window.

The girl looked up; the sun was laughing full in her eyes.

She sat up in bed, as if waking from a deep sleep; all things seemed strange and unexpected.

“Has the sun eyes too, I wonder?...  Has it been watching me all these mornings?"...

* * * * *

After a little while she raised her head, and looked up shyly once more.

The sun was watching her with a great questioning glance—­as a mother looks when she does not speak, but questions with her eyes alone.

The girl felt a shock, as if the blood had ceased to flow in her veins; she cast down her eyes, and looked up no more.  Two great pearly tears quivered on her lashes.

“What is it?” asked her lover in dismay, half rising in his turn.  “What is it, Pansy?” He pressed her tenderly to him.  “Why are your eyes cast down?”

The teardrops trembled a moment and fell; the girl turned, and hid her face in the pillow.

“Pansy, oh, my love!” he whispered, filled with a burning desire to comfort her.

The girl’s bare shoulders quivered, and her breast heaved with suppressed sobs.

It was like a cold iron through his soul—­as if he had been soaring in the bluest heights, to fall now, broken-winged, among sharp rocks, hearing sounds of misery on every side.

Heavily he threw himself down beside her, and hid his face in her dark hair.

Two children of men, with shoulders heaving and faces wet with tears....  The room seemed full of their sighing.