“Then perhaps it ought to be bought to-night. There is plenty of time yet.” “In the morning will do.” “If it should not be ready----” “I will attend to that,” said Mrs. Bloommaert, and her manner was not only confident, but final on the subject. “I must go out for an hour after tea, but when I return we can talk over a few business points,” said the judge to Leonard; and the young man was so elated and happy he only smiled; he could say neither yes nor no; everything had slipped from his consciousness but the joy of being near Sappha, of seeing her face, of hearing her speak, and feeling the clasp of her hand within his own. Then when the judge had gone Mrs. Bloommaert said to Sappha: “I have a letter to write to your grandmother; a very important letter, and I shall have to pick my thoughts, and choose my words, and that is a thing I cannot do if you and Leonard are whispering behind me. Go into the other parlour, and make your little arrangements there.” Very willingly they obeyed, and the sight of the piano was enough to raise the spirit of melody in Leonard’s heart. “Let us sing one song together, dearest,” he said, and Sappha found the key of the locked instrument, while Leonard searched among the piled music sheets for some song fit for the happy hour. “Love’s Maytime,” he cried. “That sounds well.” And he stooped and kissed her as she seated herself. Their heads bent toward each other, they were radiant with the most transporting love and their hearts ravished with the bliss of their reunion. “Sing, my love, and sadden me into deeper joy,” whispered Leonard; and soft and low to the simple melody Sappha sang: “We two will see the springtime still In days with autumn rife; When wintry winds blow bleak and chill And we near the bourne of life. “For love is ever young and kind, And love will with us stay Till we in Life’s December find A path of endless May.” --_Louis Ledoux._ Leonard caught the melody quickly, and Mrs. Bloommaert stopped her writing to listen. “Their voices are like one,” she thought. “They are happy, they may be more so, but ‘a path of endless May’ is asking a great deal; and yet, as we grow old and unbeautiful, the thought of endless life, and endless youth, and endless love, and endless May helps to make grey hair and failing strength bearable. What was it I heard Rose singing last night? Something of the same kind--some Methodist hymn about endless spring: “There everlasting spring abides And never fading flowers.”