We are in the park next afternoon by the water. I look at her white throat full as it were of song. And her rounded virginal bosom, beautiful! And I study her eyes, I search to the depths her eyes In the light of the sun. They are full of little rays Like the edge of a fleur de lys, and she smiles At first when I fling my soul at her feet. But when I repeat I love her, love her only, A cloud of wonder passes over her face, She veils her eyes. The color comes to her cheeks. And when she picks some clover blossoms and tears them Her hand is trembling. And when I tell her again I love her, love her only, she blots her eyes With a handkerchief to hide a tear that starts. And she says to me: "You do not know me at all, How can you love me? You never saw me before Last night." "Well, tell me about yourself." And after a time she tells me the story: About her father who ran away from her mother; And how she hated her father, and how she grieved When her mother died; and how a good grandmother Helped her and helps her now. And how her sister Divorced her husband. And then she paused a moment: "I am not strong, you'd have to guard me gently, And that takes money, dear, as well as love. Two years ago I was very ill, and since then I am not strong." "Well I can work," I said. "And what would you think of a little cottage Not too far out with a yard and hosts of roses, And a vine on the porch, and a little garden, And a dining room where the sun comes in, When a morning breeze blows over your brow, And you sit across the table and serve me And neither of us can speak for happiness Without our voices breaking, or lips trembling." She is looking down with little frowns on her brow. "But if ever I had to work, I could not do it, I am not really well." "But I can work," I said. I rise and lift her up, holding her hand. She slips her arm through mine and presses it. "What a good man you are," she said. "Just like a brother-- I almost love you, I believe I love you." The reader of the letter, being a doctor, Is talking learnedly of the writer's case Which has the classical marks of paresis. Next day I look up Jim and rhapsodize About a cottage with roses and a garden, And a dining room where the sun comes in, And Arabel across the table. Jim is smoking And flicking the ashes, but never says a word Till I have finished. Then in a quiet voice: "Arabel's sister says that Arabel's straight, But she isn't, my boy--she's just like Arabel's sister. She knew you had the madness for Arabel. That's why we laughed and stood apart as we talked. And I'll tell you now I didn't go home that night, I shook you at the corner and went back, And staid that night. Now be a man, my boy, Go have your fling with Arabel, but drop The cottage and the roses." They are still discussing the madman's letter.