"Yes. The sweetest thing in the world, the best, and the dearest. You, dear, yourself. Oh! dearest, if I could tell you what I feel. Speech--what a silly thing speech is! It can only hint clumsily, futilely. If I could only tell you, for instance, how the world has suddenly taken on brightness for me since you smiled. I feel a tenderness to all nature. I believe at heart there is good in everyone, don't you? To-day I seem to see nothing but good. I could find you a lovable spot in the worst villain you might name. I suppose it is the stream of sweetness that comes from you, dear. Why can't this hour last forever. I want it to, oh, I want it to!" "It is," she whispered, "an hour I shall always remember." "Yes, but it must last, it can't die; it sha'n't! Jeannette, let us make this hour last us our lives! Can't we?" "Our lives?" she whispered. "Yes, our lives. This is only the first minute of our life. We must never part again. I seem to have been behind a cloud of doubt and distrust until this moment. I hardly realize what has happened to me. Is love so refining a thing as all this? Does it turn bitter into sweet, and make all the ups and downs of the world shine like one level, beautiful sea of tenderness? It can be nothing else, but that--my love, our--can I say our love, Jeannette?" The sun streamed in at the window, kissing the tendrils of her hair and bringing to their copper shimmer a yet brighter blush. The day, with all its perfume, the splendor of its people, the riot of color of its gowns, the pride and pomp of its statues and its fountains, flushed the most secret rills of life. "It is a marvel of a day," said Jeannette. "A marvel? It is an impossible day; it is not a day at all--it is merely the hour of hours, the supreme instant, the melody so sweet that it must break or blind our hearts. You are right, dear, it is a marvelous hour. You make me repeat myself. Can we let this hour--escape, Jeannette?" "It goes fast." "Fast--fast as the wind. Fleet as air and fair as heaven are the instants that bring happiness to common mortals. But we must hold the hour, cage it, leash it to our lives." "Do you think we can?" She had used the "we!" Oh yes, and she had said it; she had said it; he sang the refrain over to himself in a swoon of bliss. "I am sure of it," he urged. "Will you try?" "You are so much the stronger," she mocked. "Oh--if it depends on me--! Try? I shall succeed! I know it. Such love as mine cannot fail. If only you will let me try. That is all; just that. "I wish you luck!" she smiled. "You have said it," he jubilated, "you have said it!" And then, realizing that she had meant it all the time, he threatened her with a look, a shake of the head--oh, you would have said he wanted to punish her in some terrible way, some way that was filled with kisses. "Jeannette," he whispered, "I have never heard you speak my name."