“Yes, indeed,” he returned heartily--and hurriedly, if she had noticed; for she was getting off on the wrong tack, and he wanted to say what he had to say before this wind filled her sails. “But it is by love, not law, that you chose me; isn’t it?” “Oh, yes, my love,” she answered softly. “Otherwise you would not take me,” he went on. “But I do love you.” “But if the time ever came when--when you ceased to care for me--” he stammered and did not finish, feeling her stiffen as if by a resolve in his arms. “It could not come, such a time,” she interrupted, “because I could never cease to love you.” “I know it, my sweetheart,” speaking with tender gratitude, “but I am only supposing the case, that if either of us ceased to care--” She tore herself from him. She covered him with her wide, blue gaze. “Could you--cease to care?” she demanded. “Absolutely no! You are my very life. I think, live and hope everything in terms of you,” he assured her. But she was not assured. She remained apart, no longer yielding to his arms about her. “Well, why think about what will not happen?” she asked. “I told you we were only supposing--” “Not I?” “--that if you or I,” he went on determined to make his point, “ceased to love, it would be profanation to--pretend--to live as if we did, wouldn’t it?” “But, George,” with a note of pain, with the brightening of tears in her eyes, “we shall be one. It says so everywhere, in the Bible, in the vows we take, that we are one flesh. Then how can either of us cease to love?” “We won’t; we never shall,” he cried eloquently, and drawing her fearful, only half-willing in a close embrace. “But I must be honest with you. This is my conviction, the sanctity and freedom of love.” “It sounds well, but it feels dangerous,” she whispered. “Don’t you believe in me, Helen?” in an offended tone. “I do, oh, I do; but not in your conviction,” she moaned. “What difference does it make, my heart? We love. We have chosen each other,” he laughed. “Forever?” she wanted to know. “Forever!” he repeated with emphasis. She leaned close to his side, her head upon his breast, her eyes closed, lips parted, white teeth gleaming. He knew for certain that nothing could separate him from this goodness, this sweetness, this loveliness. He merely wished to be on the level, to conceal nothing from her that concerned them so nearly. He kissed her rapturously. She opened her eyes, human violets, blue like these flowers, innocent like a maid, but troubled as if far away cold winds were sweeping down. “Do you feel the wind?” she said. “There is no wind.” “Yes; and cold; I feel the chill.” “The air from the river,” he said, releasing her. “And the sun is down. It is late. We must go,” she said. They went back down the slope to the road, hand in hand as they had come up, but not the same. The pain which accompanies love had entered her heart.