“You can never lose yourself too much, little sweetheart,” David whispered; “let us trust to love, and let it grow all that it will.  Helen, I never knew what it was to live until I met you,—­never knew how life could be so full and rich and happy.  And never, never will I be able to tell you how much I love you, dearest soul.”

“Oh, but I believe you without being told!” she said, laughing.  “Do you know, I could make myself quite mad just with saying over to myself that you love me all that I could ever wish you to love me, all that I could imagine you loving me!  Isn’t that true, David?”

“Yes, that is true,” the man replied.

“But you don’t know what a wonderful imagination I have,” laughed the girl, “and how hungry for your love I am.”  And she clasped him to her passionately and cried, “David, you can make me too happy to live with that thought!  I shall have to think about it all the time that you are gone, and when you come back I shall be so wonderfully excited,—­oh—­oh, David!”

Then she laughed eagerly and sprang up.  “You must not stay any longer,” she exclaimed, “because it is getting late; only hurry back, because I can do nothing but wait for you.”  And so she led him to the door, and kissed him again, and then watched him as he started up the road.  He turned and looked at her, as she leaned against the railing of the porch, with the glory of the sunset falling upon her hair; she made a radiant picture, for her cheeks were still flushed, and her bosom still heaving with the glory of the thought she had promised to keep.  There was so much of her love in the look which she kept upon David that it took some resolution to go on. and leave her.

As for Helen, she watched him until he had quite disappeared in the forest, after which she turned and gazed across the lake at the gold and crimson mountains.  But all the time she was still thinking the thought of David’s love; the wonder of it was still upon her face, and it seemed to lift her form; until at last she stretched wide her arms, and leaned back her head, and drank a deep draft of the evening air, whispering aloud, “Oh, I do not dare to be as happy as I can!” And she clasped her arms upon her bosom and laughed a wild laugh of joy.

Later on, because it was cold, she turned and went into the house, singing a song to herself as she moved.  As she went to the piano and sat down she saw upon the rack the little springtime song of Grieg’s that was the first thing she had ever heard upon David’s violin; she played a few bars of it to herself, and then she stopped and sat still, lost in the memory which it brought to her mind of the night when she had sat at the window and listened to it, just after seeing Arthur for the last time.  “And to think that it was only four or five months ago!” she whispered to herself.  “And how wretched I was!”

“I do not believe I could ever be so unhappy again,” she went on after a while, “I know that I could not, while I have David!” after which her thoughts came back into the old, old course of joy.  When she looked at the music again the memory of her grief was gone, and she read in it all of her own love-glory.  She played it through again, and afterwards sat quite still, until the twilight had begun to gather in the room.