And uplifting his face at last, with eyes dilated, Large as great stars in mist, and dim, with dabbled lashes, Philip, with new tears starting, You think I do not remember, Said,—suppose that I did not observe! Ah me, shall I tell you? Elspie, it was your look that sent me away from Rannoch. It was your glance, that, descending, an instant revelation, Showed me where I was, and whitherward going; recalled me, Sent me, not to my books, but to wrestlings of thought in the mountains. Yes, I have carried your glance within me undimmed, unaltered, As a lost boat the compass some passing ship has lent her, Many a weary mile on road, and hill, and moorland: And you suppose that I do not remember, I had not observed it! O, did the sailor bewildered observe when they told him his bearings? O, did he cast overboard, when they parted, the compass they gave him? And he continued more firmly, although with stronger emotion: Elspie, why should I speak it? you cannot believe it, and should not: Why should I say that I love, which I all but said to another? Yet should I dare, should I say, O Elspie, you only I love; you, First and sole in my life that has been and surely that shall be; Could—O, could you believe it, O Elspie, believe it and spurn not? Is it—possible,—possible, Elspie? Well,—she answered, And she was silent some time, and blushed all over, and answered Quietly, after her fashion, still knitting, Maybe, I think of it, Though I don’t know that I did: and she paused again; but it may be, Yes,—I don’t know, Mr. Philip,—but only it feels to me strangely, Like to the high new bridge, they used to build at, below there, Over the burn and glen on the road. You won’t understand me. But I keep saying in my mind—this long time slowly with trouble I have been building myself, up, up, and toilfully raising, Just like as if the bridge were to do it itself without masons, Painfully getting myself upraised one stone on another, All one side I mean; and now I see on the other Just such another fabric uprising, better and stronger, Close to me, coming to join me: and then I sometimes fancy,— Sometimes I find myself dreaming at nights about arches and bridges,— Sometimes I dream of a great invisible hand coming down, and Dropping the great key-stone in the middle: there in my dreaming, There I felt the great-key stone coming in, and through it Feel the other part—all the other stones of the archway, Joined into mine with a strange happy sense of completeness. But, dear me, This is confusion and nonsense. I mix all the things I can think of. And you won’t understand, Mr. Philip. But while she was speaking, So it happened, a moment she paused from her work, and pondering, Laid her hand on her lap: Philip took it: she did not resist: