"Yes, if it is not very long:" he said. "We must be off for our drive in half an hour." Dolores ran and brought an old magazine from her ebony desk, and, resuming her place at Percy's knees, read the poem. "The name of the author is not given," she said; "but it seemed to me whoever wrote it, had loved as we love, Percy--with every faculty of his being. It is called THREE-FOLD. Somewhere I've read a thoughtful mind's reflection: "All perfect things are three-fold:" and I know Our love has this rare symbol of perfection: The brain's response, the warm blood's rapturous glow, The soul's sweet language, silent and unspoken. All these unite us, with a deathless tie. For when our frail, clay tenement is broken, Our spirits will be lovers still, on high. My dearest wish, you speak before I word it. You understand the workings of my heart. My soul's thought, breathed where only God has heard it, You fathom with your strange divining art. And like a fire, that cheers, and lights, and blesses, And floods a mansion full of happy heat, So does the subtle warmth of your caresses, Pervade me with a rapture, keen as sweet. And so sometimes, as you and I together Exult in all dear love's three-fold delights, I cannot help but vaguely wonder whether When our freed souls, attain their spirit heights, E'en if we reach that upper realm where God is, And find the tales of heavenly glory true, I wonder if we shall not miss our bodies, And long, at times, for hours on earth we knew. As now, we sometimes pray to leave our prison And soar beyond all physical demands, So may we not sigh, when we have arisen, For just one old-time touch of lips and hands? I know, dear heart, a thought like this seems daring Concerning God's vast Government above, Yet, even _There_, I shrink from wholly sparing One element, from this, our Three-fold Love." "What a very queer idea!" commented Percy, with a slight frown, as Dolores finished reading the poem. "It has the merit of being original, at least, but I cannot say that I like it." "Still it expresses a great deal: the person who composed it must have comprehended every phase of love. Do you not think so?" "It is quite as likely that the author had never loved at all, save in imagination. And I do not like the idea of ever longing for my body after I once get through with its troublesome demands. It is too material." Dolores looked wonderingly at Percy. "What a strange man you are!" she said. "After all, I do not think I fully understand you. Sometimes you shock me with your lack of orthodoxy, and again I feel as if your spiritual nature was far beyond my own in its development. You are a paradox, _mon ami_. But there is the carriage, and I must put on my hat and gloves." CHAPTER XV. SUDDEN FLIGHT.