"Right in one way, but perhaps wrong in another. Don't you know that some responsibilities are the most dearly coveted of mortal honours? But then we shouldn't be worthy of them, if they didn't make us feel a little serious. Can't you imagine that to hear another say that her life is in one's hands makes one feel just a little solemn?" "But isn't your life in mine, Henry?" asked Angel, simply. "Of course it is, dear," answered Henry. And then the moon began to rise through the trees, pouring enchantment over the sleeping woods, and the meadows half-submerged in lakes of mist. Angel drew close to Henry, and watched it with big eyes. "What a wonderful world it is! How beautiful and how sad!" she said, half to herself. "Yes; there is nothing in the world so sad as beauty," answered Henry. "If only to-night could last forever! If only we could die now, sitting just like this, with the moon rising yonder." "But we shall have many nights like this together," said Henry. "No; we shall never have this night again. We may have other wonderful nights, but they will be different. This will never come again." Henry instinctively realised that here was a mystical side to Angel's nature which, however it might charm him, was not to be indiscriminately encouraged, and he tried to rally her out of her sadness, but her feeling was too much his own for him to persist; and as the moonlight moved in its ascension from one beautiful change to another, now woven by branches and leaves into weird tapestries of light and darkness, now hanging like some golden fruit from the boughs, and now uplifted like a lamp in some window of space, they sat together, alike held by the ancient spell; and, presently, Henry so far lost himself in it as to quote some lines entirely in Angel's mood: "She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veiled Melancholy has her sov'ran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung." "What wonderful lines!" said Angel; "who wrote them? Are they your own?" "Ah, Angel, what would I give if they were! No, they are by John Keats. You must let me give you his poems."