“I may speak,” she said hoarsely, “but never shall I tell how utterly I love you—beyond all reason—all measure. Ah, since I first saw you the world has stopped about me, and there has been nothing but this one thought of you!” He caught his breath. “Why—are these things possible?” he asked. “And you do not know me.” She rose and turned to him in a triumphant passion, her hand lightly on her heart. “No, I only love you,” she said. “And that makes it seem as if you had been one with my life from the first. Ah, can you think of time?” “God knows, of nothing,” he answered; he held his ungloved hand out as if to take hers, but she fell back. “Ah, don’t touch me,” she said unsteadily. “Not yet—not yet. I am so happy, that I am afraid, and if you touch me you may break the spell, and my dream go away.” He laughed gently. “But this is no dream, sweetheart, do you not hear the anthem yonder in the church? And all around us the graves? There are no graves in dreams.” “Nor surely often such joy on earth,” whispered Delia. “As mine—as mine—yet what have I said? Shame should hold me silent—but you have disarmed me and laid me defenseless at your feet—ah, leave me, for I have said too much!” He laid his hand very lightly on her shoulder. “You make mine unworthiness a heavy thing,” he said somberly. “If you are sincere—Delia—” She thought he doubted her, and her pure face paled and flushed. “Alas! you had not said that had I been silent longer,” she cried. “You carried my heart too soon to value it—yet if you love me—” “Delia—if I love you?” “You will not doubt that my very soul is yours—ah, Heaven—forever!” “I wonder,” he said musingly. “Nay, do not turn your face away, for it is lovely to look upon—and mine—you say forever.” “Yes,” she said trembling. He seated himself beside her and took her cold hands in his; this time she did not resist; complete silence was about them; the Abbey service was over; long shadows filled the cloisters and the sunlight had faded to a mere stain on the wall. Loose gray clouds sped over the sky, and a chill little wind blew in and out the arches. Delia rose, drawing her hand away, her face was hidden under the shadow of her hat, her figure a shadow among shadows. He rose beside her; his footfall echoed through the emptiness. “My sweet child,” he said, in a voice fallen very low and soft. She turned without a word and her head lifted slowly, he saw her eyes were glittering with tears. “Kiss me,” he said gently. She shrank back. “Ah, no,” she pleaded. “Not that—I love you so—” her voice fell brokenly. “I mean—I—” “Why, surely, you may kiss me, Delia?” he answered. Further still into the shadows she withdrew. “Love is not kisses,” she said faintly. “Some think so, Delia,” he smiled. “I—I would not,” she faltered. He picked up his hat and whip. “Sweetheart—I must go.” “Yes,” she said softly. “But I have the thought of you, which is company enough.” He looked at her a moment through the twilight.