"Yes, my queen--for always." When they reached the house, Madame was nowhere in sight. Divining their wish to be alone on this last evening together, she had long since gone to her own room. The candles on the mantel had been lighted and the reading lamp burned low. Near it was the little red book that Edith had found at the top of the Hill of the Muses. Sighing, she took it up. "How long ago it seems," she said, "and yet it wasn't. Life began for me that night." "And for me. I read to you, do you remember, just before I kissed you for the first time?" "Yes. Read to me again just before you kiss me for the last time, then give me the book to keep." "Which one? The same?" "No," cried Edith. "Anything but that!" "Then choose. Close your eyes, and choose." "It's like seeking for a message, or a sign," she said, as she swiftly turned the pages. Then, with her eyes still closed, she offered him the book. "Here--read this. Is it a blank page?" [Sidenote: Severed Selves] There was a pause, then Edith opened her eyes. "It isn't the first one you read to me, is it? Don't tell me that it is!" "No," said Alden, "it isn't, but it's a message. Listen." She sat down, in her old place, but he stood at the table, bending toward the light. His boyish mouth trembled a little, his hands were unsteady, and there was a world of love and pain in his eyes. With his voice breaking upon the words, he read: "Two separate divided silences, Which, brought together, would find loving voice; Two glances which together would rejoice In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees; Two hands apart, whose touch alone gives ease; Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame, Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same; Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:-- Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast Indeed one hour again, when on this stream Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?-- An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,-- Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last, Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream." For a moment the silence was tense. Then the hall clock struck the hour of midnight. It beat upon their senses like a funeral knell. Then Edith, white-faced, and struggling valiantly for self-control, reached out her hand for the book. [Sidenote: Good-bye] "Good-night, Boy," she said, "for the last time." "Good-night," he answered, gathering her into his arms. "And good-bye, Boy, forever!" "Forever," he echoed, "good-bye!" He kissed her again, not with passion, but with the love that has risen above it. Then she released herself, and, holding the little red book against her heart, ran quickly up-stairs. He waited until the echo of her footsteps had died away, and her door had closed softly. Then he put out the lights, and sat there for a long time in the darkness, thinking, before he went to his room. XX "The Lady Traveller"