She, too, had been silent for some time, and her face was tender with thought. Could it be that her thoughts had been of like tenor to his own? The corners of her mouth were bent into a reflective smile that was very sweet, and the light in her eyes was soft—the light o’ dreams. If it could only be that her thoughts were as his thoughts—and of him! If only it could be! The Bachelor’s blood quickened and ran toward the hope, and he knew that the worth of the world lay in this balance. And then the honey-sweet tones of The Girl rippled out the familiar strains of “Because I Love You.” Surely it was the cause of life’s mysteries and their solution, and the delving of scientists was altogether unnecessary. All of The Bachelor’s pulses proclaimed it—and were glad. “My only one regret— Since then we never met,” sang The Girl, and fear struck him chill. Not that—not that! The mere suggestion emptied his life. The Bachelor impulsively reached out and closed his hand over his companion’s, which was resting on the bench between them. “Dear”—he breathed rather than spoke, and The Single Lady turned her eyes from their dreamy contemplation of something far away, to his, but they did not look startled. It was easily supposed that she, too, had listened to the music which was as the music of Isolde—“strangely-gentle, love-persuading”—and had also seen visions. Yet they remained silent, harkening to the melody, which was “saying all things” so immeasurably well. It ceased, but the spell still held them. The arc-light came on and disputed the reign of the moonlight with its cold white glare, but the illumination of their world was still rose. The Girl Who Sang came out on the gallery, a frivolous whirlwind of frills and furbelows, humming the end of her song, “Because I love you, dear, because I love you.” It was adequate phrasing of the story of life. The Girl halted before them and swept them with comprehensive eyes. “Oh—” she said, her tone mischievous, daring, “o-h!” The Single Lady looked down at their clasped hands with a sudden sensing of the conventions. She made a movement of withdrawal, but The Bachelor held her slender fingers fast. She looked up and met his eyes. She saw in them a compelling force strangely mingled with pleading and question. “Yes—why—yes,” The Single Lady said, in happy confusion. “Yes. Of _course_!” said The Bachelor, in happy decision. THE SOUTH WIND’S SONG Sweet and low, upon the wings of morn I come, And bring to you fond mem’ries of the days gone by; The fragrance of the rose, the drowsy bee’s low hum; All these, and more, I weave for you in lullaby. Upon the canvas stretched by the new-born sun I paint quaint scenes of times both sad and gay; Of dreary days, misspent when scarce begun; Of happier times and scenes I sing my lay.