She did so, and looking at her face he saw there was no anger, nothing but proud, calm content. He said to himself he need not go just yet, he could stay a few minutes longer. "Do you know that beautiful old German ballad," he said, "'In sheltered vale a mill-wheel Still tunes its tuneful lay'?" "No; I never heard or read it," she answered. "Say it for me." "'In sheltered vale a mill-wheel Still tunes its tuneful lay. My darling once did dwell there, But now she's far away. A ring in pledge I gave her, And vows of love we spoke-- Those vows are all forgotten, The ring asunder broke.'" "Hush," she said, holding up one white hand; "hush, it is too sad. Do you not see that the moonlight has grown dim, and the sound of the falling waters is the sound of falling tears?" He did not seem to understand her words. "That song has haunted me," he said, "ever since I heard it. I must say the last verse; it must have been of this very mill-wheel it was written. "'But while I hear the mill-wheel My pains will never cease; I would the grave could hide me, For there alone is peace.'" "Is it a love story?" she asked, pleased at the pathos and rhythm of the words. "Yes; it is the usual story--the whole love of a man's heart given to one not worthy of it, the vows forgotten, the ring broken. Then he cries out for the grave to hide himself and his unhappy love." She looked up at him with dark, lustrous, gleaming eyes. "Does all love end in sorrow?" she asked, simply. He looked musingly at the moonlit waters, musingly at the starlit sky. "I cannot tell," he replied, "but it seems to me that it ends more in sorrow than in joy. I should say," he continued, "that when truth meets truth, where loyalty meets loyalty, the ending is good; but where a true heart finds a false one, where loyalty and honor meet lightness and falsehood, then the end must be bad." Leone seemed suddenly to remember that she was talking to a stranger, and, of all subjects, they had fallen on love. "I must go," she said, hurriedly. "You will remember the way." "Pray do not go--just this minute," he said. "History may repeat itself; life never does. There can never be a night half so fair as this again; the water will never fall with so sweet a ripple; the stars will never shine with so bright a light; life may pass, and we may never meet again. You have a face like a poem. Stay a few minutes longer." "A face like a poem." Did he really think so? The words pleased her. "Strange things happen in real life," he said; "things that, told in novels and stories, make people laugh and cry out that they are exaggerated, too romantic to be real. How strange that I should have met you here this evening by the side of the mill-stream--a place always haunted by poetry and romance. You will think it stranger still when I tell you your face has haunted me all day."