"I don't think my voice is in tune to-day. I'm hoarse as a raven. I'll read you a verse and then you will cry, 'Hold! enough.'" She laughed, and Lord Chester began: "A sweeter, sadder thing, My life for having known you, Forever with its sacred kin, My soul's soul, I must own you Forever mine, my friend, From June to life's December-- Not mine to have or hold, But to pray for and remember." His voice _was_ discordant with the hoarseness of subtle pain. He let the little book fall on the grass. "You see?" he said. "Yes you do not read well," she answered frankly. "But how can I amuse you? Shall I read to you, or talk?" "Neither," he replied with a forced smile. "Let us sit very, very quiet for awhile and listen to the river. It has a voice, you know, and when we listen thoughtfully it will repeat over and over some one word, according to your fancy. Then you shall tell me what it said to you and I will confess what it said to me." "What a romantic thought! but I like it," cried Precious, and for some time both remained silent; listening to the low, monotonous ripple of the river. She did not know that he wanted to be silent awhile to fight a battle with his own heart, to gain strength to bear a cross of pain. "Well?" he asked her presently in a gentle voice. She answered pensively: "It kept whispering, whispering over and over, one sad word: 'Regret! regret! regret!'" "Mine was similar," said Lord Chester. "Its burden was, 'Too late! too late! too late!'" He looked at her, and she lost her pensive air and smiled. "I felt quite solemn while I was silent," she said. "And it was several minutes before I could make out the river's words. I am sorry they gave us plaintive words." "I was wondering," he answered dreamily, "whether each would catch the same word." "Oh, that would have been very amusing," cried Precious. "Yes," he answered gently, "there was one word--one--that I should have liked it to echo to both our hearts. I should have taken it for a prophecy." "What word?" asked Precious with innocent curiosity. In spite of herself she returned his look. Dark-gray eyes met the tender blue ones in one long, lingering, thrilling glance. What did they say to each other? "How does Love speak? In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek, By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache, In the tender And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor, In the fire Glance strikes with glance." With an effort Precious withdrew her eyes from his, the color flaming up into her cheeks, her bosom heaving a low soft sigh, while Lord Chester echoed the sigh and looked away at the distant hills in a strange silence. Yet he had answered the girl's question without a word! And after that it was hard to make conversation.