“For how long?” she asked.

“For all our lives now, and for all our life hereafter.”

He raised her hand to his lips, bending his head, and then he drew her from the window, and they walked slowly up and down the great room.

“It is very strange,” she said presently, in a low voice.

“That I should love you?”

“Yes.  Where were we an hour ago?  What is become of that old time—­that was an hour ago?”

“I have forgotten, dear—­that was in the other life.”

“The other life!  Yes—­how unhappy I was—­there, by that window, a hundred years ago!”

She laughed softly, and Orsino smiled as he looked down at her.

“Are you happy now?”

“Do not ask me—­how could I tell you?”

“Say it to yourself, love—­I shall see it in your dear face.”

“Am I not saying it?”

Then they were silent again, walking side by side, their arms locked and pressing one another.

It began to dawn upon Orsino that a great change had come into his life, and he thought of the consequences of what he was doing.  He had not said that he was happy, but in the first moment he had felt it more than she.  The future, however, would not be like the present, and could not be a perpetual continuation of it.  Orsino was not at all of a romantic disposition, and the practical side of things was always sure to present itself to his mind very early in any affair.  It was a part of his nature and by no means hindered him from feeling deeply and loving sincerely.  But it shortened his moments of happiness.

“Do you know what this means to you and me?” he asked, after a time.

Maria Consuelo started very slightly and looked up at him.

“Let us think of to-morrow—­to-morrow,” she said.  Her voice trembled a little.

“Is it so hard to think of?” asked Orsino, fearing lest he had displeased her.

“Very hard,” she answered, in a low voice.

“Not for me.  Why should it be?  If anything can make to-day more complete, it is to think that to-morrow will be more perfect, and the next day still more, and so on, each day better than the one before it.”

Maria Consuelo shook her head.

“Do not speak of it,” she said.

“Will you not love me to-morrow?” Orsino asked.  The light in his face told how little earnestly he asked the question, but she turned upon him quickly.

“Do you doubt yourself, that you should doubt me?” There was a ring of terror in the words that startled him as he heard them.

“Beloved—­no—­how can you think I meant it?”

“Then do not say it.”  She shivered a little, and bent down her head.

“No—­I will not.  But—­dear—­do you know where we are?”

“Where we are?” she repeated, not understanding.

“Yes—­where we are.  This was to have been your home this year.”

“Was to have been?” A frightened look came into her face.