She tries to work to while away the time, but her usually clever fingers refuse their task, and the canvas falls unheeded to the floor. She tries to read; but, alas! all the words grow together and form themselves into one short sentence: "He is coming--coming--coming." Insensibly Tennyson's words come to her, and, closing her eyes, she repeats them softly to herself: "O days and hours, your work is this, To hold me from my proper place A little while from his embrace, For fuller gain of after-bliss. * * * "That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet, And unto meeting, when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue!" At length the well-known step is heard upon the stairs, the well-known voice, that sends a very pang of joy through every pulse in her body, sounds eagerly through the house. His hand is on the door. With a sudden trembling she says to herself: "I will be calm. He must not know how dearly he is loved." And then the door opens. He is before her. A host of recollections, sweet and bitter, rise with his presence; and, forgetful of her determination to be calm and dignified as well for his sake as her own, she lets the woman triumph, and, with a little cry, sad from the longing and despair of it, she runs forward and throws herself, with a sob, into his expectant arms. At first they do not speak. He does not even kiss her, only holds her closely in his embrace, as one holds some precious thing, some priceless possession that, once lost, has been regained. Then they do kiss each other, gravely, tenderly, with a gentle lingering. "It is indeed you," she says, at last, regarding him wistfully with a certain pride of possession, he looks so tall, and strong, and handsome in her eyes. She examines him critically, and yet finds nothing wanting. He is to her perfection, as, indeed (unhappily), a man always is to the woman who loves him. Could she at this moment concentrate her thoughts, I think she would apply to him all the charms contained in the following lines: "A mouth for mastery and manful work; A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes; A brow the harbor of fair thought, and hair Saxon in hue." "You are just the same as ever," she says, presently, "only taller, I really think, and broader and bigger altogether." Then, in a little soft whisper, "My dear,--my darling." "And you," he says, taking the sweet face he has so hungered for between his hands, the better to mark each change time may have wrought, "you have grown thinner. You are paler. Darling,"--a heavy shadow falling across his face,--"you are well,--quite well?" "Perfectly," she answers, lightly, pleased at his uneasiness. "Town life--the city air--has whitened me; that is all."