"A bird flew down when the sun set red, To sing his hymn from the reed's bowed head To God, the All-good Giver. Bowed by the weight of the singing bird, At long, long last the waters stirred, As the reed's plume touched the river. "'Oh! glad and sweet,' sang the bird, 'is Life, And Death is sweet, bringing Peace to Strife, But Love is God's best treasure. It cometh best when it comes unsought, It giveth all, and it asketh naught, For true love hath no measure,' "The bird flew home when its song had ceased. The reed, from its one dear kiss released, Shall give another never; But a silver crown of dewdrops shone, Telling of true love given, not won, In the reed's bright plume for ever. "Go forth, my song! so that all may learn Love, like the reed's, needeth no return, Save the baptism of the river. Though the heart be sad, and the way be long, A love that is tender, and true, and strong, Crowneth the life of the giver." Dr. Kennedy recited well; the tremor of his voice had soon passed, and with it, apparently, all sense of the personal application of the verses; for as he sate, still whittling away at the hazel root, his keen brown face wore a half-humorous and half-puzzled look, and after a decent pause he gave an odd sort of laugh. "It sounds pretty," he said; "but upon my word I don't know quite what I meant, and I am almost certain it was not love, not what is generally understood by love." Marjory looked at him judgmatically. "Nonsense! Of course it was love, and what is more, Tom, I think you must have been in love when you wrote it. Now confess, were you not?" Once again the temptation to say "Yes! with you," rose uppermost; only to meet with the old revulsion of feeling, born of the knowledge of things hidden from her, and please God! always to be so hidden. In love! Great heavens, no! if that were love. And yet, how could he answer for her nature as well as his own? For a nature which his practised eye told him was full of vitality, full of possibilities; and young, ah! so young as yet in its knowledge of itself. If he told her that he loved her and asked her to marry him, the chances were ten to one that she would say "Yes." And yet the conviction that it was so brought him no content, but only something of tender reluctance for her, of vague contempt for himself. "In love!" he echoed. "I was in a delirium if you meant that, or near it. Temperature a hundred and five point two, and Abbeville--he was nursing me--good luck to him!--had just confessed there was not much chance; as if I hadn't known that for days!" "And you never told me," she said, after a pause.