cheek to cheek, and still I questioned or replied, while my heart, convulsed to really speak, lay choking in its pride. Silent the crumbling bridge we cross, and pity and praise the chapel sweet, and care about the fresco's loss, and wish for our souls a like retreat, and wonder at the moss. Stoop and kneel on the settle under, look through the window's grated square: nothing to see! For fear of plunder, the cross is down and the altar bare, as if thieves don't fear thunder. We stoop and look in through the grate, see the little porch and rustic door, read duly the dead builder's date; then cross the bridge that we crossed before, take the path again--but wait! Oh moment one and infinite! the water slips o'er stock and stone; the West is tender, hardly bright: how gray at once is the evening grown--one star, its chrysolite! We two stood there with never a third, but each by each, as each knew well: the sights we saw and the sounds we heard, the lights and the shades made up a spell till the trouble grew and stirred. Oh, the little more, and how much it is! and the little less, and what worlds away! How a sound shall quicken content to bliss, or a breath suspend the blood's best play, and life be a proof of this! Had she willed it, still had stood the screen so slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her: I could fix her face with a guard between, and find her soul as when friends confer, friends--lovers that might have been. For my heart had a touch of the woodland time, wanting to sleep now over its best. Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime, but bring to the last leaf no such test! "Hold the last fact!" runs the rhyme. For a chance to make your little much, to gain a lover and lose a friend, venture the tree and a myriad such, when nothing you mar but the year can mend: but a last leaf--fear to touch! Yet should it unfasten itself and fall eddying down till it find your face at some slight wind--best chance of all! be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place you trembled to forestall! Worth how well, those dark gray eyes, that hair so dark and dear, how worth that a man should strive and agonize, and taste a veriest hell on earth for the hope of such a prize! You might have turned and tried a man, set him a space to weary and wear, and prove which suited more your plan, his best of hope or his worst despair, yet end as he began. But you spared me this, like the heart you are, and filled my empty heart at a word. If two lives join, there is oft a scar, they are one and one, with a shadowy third; one near one is too far. A moment after, and hands unseen were hanging the night around us fast; but we knew that a bar was broken between life and life: we were mixed at last in spite of the mortal screen. The forests had done it; there they stood; we caught for a moment the powers at play: they had mingled us so, for once and good, their work was done--we might go or stay, they relapsed to their ancient mood. How the world is made for each