And this girl he holds in his arms!  So pliant, so yielding, so pure and undefiled!  And the silken sheen and intoxicating perfume of her hair, and the trembling lashes shading the eager, longing, soul-hungry eyes; and the way the little pink ears nestle; and the fair, white, dovelike throat, with its ripple of lace.  And then the dear arms about his neck and the soft clinging fingers that are intertwined with his own!  And more wonderful still, the perfect unison, the oneness, the sameness; no jar, no discordant note; mind, soul, desire—­a harmony.

The wise men say there are no parallels in nature; that no one thing in the wide universe exactly mates and matches any other one thing; that each cloud has differed from every other cloud-form in every hour of the day and night, to-day, yesterday and so on back through the forgotten centuries; that no two leaves in form, color, or texture, lift the same faces to the sun on any of the million trees; that no wave on any beach curves and falls as any wave has curved and fallen before—­not since the planet cooled.  And so it is with the drift of wandering winds; with the whirl and crystals of driving snow, with the slant and splash of rain.  And so, too, with the flight of birds; the dash and tumble of restless brooks; the roar of lawless thunder and the songs of birds.

The one exception is when we hold in our arms the woman we love, and for the first time drink in her willing soul through her lips.  Then, and only then, does the note of perfect harmony ring true through the spheres.

For a long time they sat perfectly still.  Not many words had passed, and these were only repetitions of those they had used before.  “Such dear hands,” Jack would say, and kiss them both up and down the fingers, and then press the warm, pink shell palm to his lips and kiss it again, shutting his eyes, with the reverence of a devotee at the feet of the Madonna.

“And, Jack dear,” Ruth would murmur, as if some new thought had welled up in her heart—­and then nothing would follow, until Jack would loosen his clasp a little—­just enough to free the dear cheek and say: 

“Go on, my darling,” and then would come—­

“Oh, nothing, Jack—­I—­” and once more their lips would meet.

It was only when MacFarlane’s firm step was heard on the stairs outside that the two awoke to another world.  Jack reached his feet first.

“Shall we tell him?” he asked, looking down into her face.

“Of course, tell him,” braved out Ruth, uptilting her head with the movement of a fawn surprised in the forest.

“When?” asked Jack, his eager eyes on the opening door.

“Now, this very minute.  I never keep anything from daddy.”

MacFarlane came sauntering in, his strong, determined, finely cut features illumined by a cheery smile.  He had squared things with himself while he had been dressing:  “Hard lines, Henry, isn’t it?” he had asked of himself, a trick of his when he faced any disaster like the present.  “Better get Ruth off somewhere, Henry, don’t you think so?  Yes, get her off to-morrow.  The little girl can’t stand everything, plucky as she is.”  It was this last thought of his daughter that had sent the cheery smile careering around his firm lips.  No glum face for Ruth!