Outside, unseen, the moon emerged from behind racing clouds, and lighted with its pale radiance the great stretch of winter-bound lake and desolate shore along which they had wandered that day seeking some response in its vast indifference; and its rays touched and silvered the roof-tree of the little house on the edge of a ravine, within whose doors, by the grace of the English poets, it was April. Blossom by blossom, about their couch, the spring began, and upon their naked limbs showered roses. “No.” said Rose-Ann, “I’m not asleep!” He laughed tenderly. “No, not now. But you have been for half an hour. I’ve been watching you sleep. You do it beautifully!” “Have I really?” She stretched herself, like a kitten upon awaking from a nap. “Well, I’m awake now, and I want some more poetry. Something sad this time.” “More poetry? What a glutton you are!” “But I _like_ poetry, Felix. It’s real to me—as real as our love.” “But why sad poetry?” he teased. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s because I’m so happy.” “I know,” said Felix, and out of the storehouse of his memory he brought one after another the stories of old unhappy love, impossible love, love that goes toward death. It was as if the contrast of these tragic fantasies was needed to make poignant the sweet and easy fulfilment of their own love—as if some chill breath from the grave must intervene between their caresses lest they seem too tame. “_The mountain ways one summer Saw life and joy go past, When we who were so lonely Went hand in hand at last._ “_And overhead the pine-woods Their purple shadows cast, When the tall twilight laid us Hot mouth to mouth at last._ “_O hills, beneath your slumber, Or pines, beneath your blast, Make room for your two children— Cold cheek to cheek at last!_” “No,” murmured Rose-Ann, lifting her head and putting her warm cheek against his own, a cheek wet with sudden tears. “Not cold cheek to cheek, Felix!” Tears sprung from that sweet sadness which only happy youth dares indulge—the wilful and daring melancholy of young love, turning aside from its joys to think of death.... Rose-Ann dried her eyes cheerfully. “I wanted to cry,” she said. “and now that I have, I feel better. Give me a cigarette!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ XX. “The Nest-building Instinct” 1 BY mid-week, Rose-Ann had become transformed into a housewife. Meals were being planned, the butcher and the grocer were making regular deliveries, Mrs. Cowan had been pressed into service, and Rose-Ann was quite the mistress of the establishment.