This kind of language would be blank to one used rather to hear words than to feel them; but Balder, in, his present exalted mood, delighted in it.  Was there any enjoyment more refined than to see his thought, before he had given it breath, lighten in the eyes of this daughter of fire? and with his own eyes to catch the first pure glimmer of her yet unborn fancies?  A language genial of intimacy, for the talkers must feel in order to utterance,—­must meet each other, from the heart outward, at every point.  The human form is made of meanings.  It is the full thought of its Creator, comprising all other thoughts.  Is it blind chance or lifeless expediency that moulds the curves of woman’s bosom, builds up man’s forehead like a citadel, and sets his head on his shoulders?  Is beauty beautiful, or are we cozened by congenial ugliness?  But Balder’s philosophic scepticism should never have braved a test like Gnulemah!

Except music, painting, sculpture,—­all the arts and inspiration of them,—­waited on the nib of the pen, such talk as passed between these two could not be written.  Some things—­and those not the least profound and admirable of life—­transcend the cunning of man to interpret them, unless to an apprehension as fine as they!  We are fain to content ourselves with the husks.

“It must be happy there!” said Gnulemah, looking cityward.  “So many Balders and Gnulemahs!”

“Why happy?” asked the man of the world, with a faint smile.

“We are only two, and have known each other to-day and yesterday.  But they, you said, are as many as the stars, and have been together many yesterdays.”

Such was the woman’s unclinched argument, leaving her listener to draw the inference.  He would not forestall her enlightenment from the grim page of his own experience.  But do not many pure and loving souls pass through the world without once noticing how bad most of the roads are, and how vexed the climates?  So might not the earthly heaven of Gnulemah’s imagination tenderly blind her to the unheavenly earth of Balder’s knowledge?

Through his abstraction Balder felt on his hand a touch soft as the flowing of a breath, yet pregnant of indefinite apprehension.  When two clouds meet, there is a hush and calm; but the first seeming-trifling lightning-flash brings on the storm whereby earth’s face is altered.  So Balder, full-charged as the thunder-cloud, awaited fearfully the first vivid word which should light the way for those he had resolved to speak.

“I see you with my open eyes, Balder, and touch you and hear you.  Is this the end I thought would come?  Balder, are you greatest?” With full trust she appealed to him to testify concerning himself.  This was the seriousness he had marked beneath the smile.

“Are you content it should be so?”

She plucked a blade of grass and tied it in a knot, and began, drawing a trembling breath between each few words,—­