‘Of my aunt,’ pursued Wilfrid, ’I have just this degree of doubt.  She might make difficulties; her ways of thinking differ often from ours.  Yet it is far better that you should continue to live with us.  I myself shall scarcely ever be at home; it will not be as if I dwelt under the roof; I will make my visits as short as possible, not to trouble you.  I could not let you go to the house of other people—­you to lack consideration, perhaps to meet unkindness!  Rather than that, you shall stay in your own home, or I will not return to Oxford at all.’

Emily stood in anxious thought.  He drew a step nearer to her; seemed about to draw nearer still, but checked himself as she looked up.

‘I fear we must not do that,’ she said.  ’Mrs. Rossall would not forgive me.’

Woman’s judgment of woman, and worth much more than Wilfrid’s rough and ready scheming.

Wilfrid smiled.

‘Then she also shall know,’ he exclaimed.  ’She shall take nay view of this; I will not be gainsaid.  What is there in the plan that common sense can object to?  Your position is not that of a servant; you are from the first our friend you honour us by the aid you give, efficient as few could make it.  Yes, there shall be no concealment far better so.’

‘You have no fear of the views they will take?’

‘None!’ he said, with characteristic decision.  ’If they are unreasonable, absurd, our course is plain enough.  You will be my wife when I ask you to, Emily?’

She faltered, and held her hand to him.

‘Is it worth while to go hack to Oxford?’ he mused, caressing the fingers he had kissed.

‘Oh, yes; you must,’ Emily urged, with a sort of fear in her sudden courage.  ‘You must not disappoint them, your father, your friends.’

‘My fair wise one!’ he murmured, gazing rapturously at her.  ’Oh, Emily, think what our life will be!  Shall we not drain the world of its wisdom, youth of its delight!  Hand in hand, one heart, one brain—­what shall escape us?  It was you I needed to give completeness to my thought and desire.’

The old dream, the eternal fancy.  This one, this and no other, chosen from out the myriads of human souls.  Individuality the servant of passion; mysteries read undoubtingly with the eye of longing.  Bead perhaps so truly; who knows?

She came nearer, imperceptibly, her raised face aglow like the morning.

‘Wilfrid—­you believe—­you know that I love you?’

The last word breathed out in the touching of lips with lips.  What could he reply, save those old, simple words of tenderness, that small vocabulary of love, common to child and man?  The goddess that made herself woman for his sake—­see, did he not hold her clasped to him!  But she was mute again.  The birds sang so loudly round about them, uttered their hearts so easily, but Emily could only speak through silence.  And afterwards she knew there was so much she should have said.  What matter?  One cannot find tongue upon the threshold of the holy of holies.