happenings are nothing, except that somehow there falls a light upon

them and a wonder. Of how we met, and the thrill of the adventure,

the curious bright sense of defiance, the joy of having dared, I

can't tell-I can but hint of just one aspect, of what an amazing

LARK-it's the only word-it seemed to us. The beauty which was the

essence of it, which justifies it so far as it will bear

justification, eludes statement.

What can a record of contrived meetings, of sundering difficulties

evaded and overcome, signify here? Or what can it convey to say

that one looked deep into two dear, steadfast eyes, or felt a heart

throb and beat, or gripped soft hair softly in a trembling hand?

Robbed of encompassing love, these things are of no more value than

the taste of good wine or the sight of good pictures, or the hearing

of music,-just sensuality and no more. No one can tell love-we

can only tell the gross facts of love and its consequences. Given

love-given mutuality, and one has effected a supreme synthesis and

come to a new level of life-but only those who know can know. This

business has brought me more bitterness and sorrow than I had ever

expected to bear, but even now I will not say that I regret that

wilful home-coming altogether. We loved-to the uttermost. Neither

of us could have loved any one else as we did and do love one

another. It was ours, that beauty; it existed only between us when

we were close together, for no one in the world ever to know save

ourselves.

My return to the office sticks out in my memory with an extreme

vividness, because of the wild eagle of pride that screamed within

me. It was Tuesday morning, and though not a soul in London knew of

it yet except Isabel, I had been back in England a week. I came in

upon Britten and stood in the doorway.

"GOD!" he said at the sight of me.

"I'm back," I said.

He looked at my excited face with those red-brown eyes of his.

Silently I defied him to speak his mind.

"Where did you turn back?" he said at last.

I had to tell what were, so far as I can remember my first positive

lies to Margaret in explaining that return. I had written to her

from Chicago and again from New York, saying that I felt I ought to

be on the spot in England for the new session, and that I was coming

back-presently. I concealed the name of my boat from her, and made

a calculated prevarication when I announced my presence in London.

I telephoned before I went back for my rooms to be prepared. She

was, I knew, with the Bunting Harblows in Durham, and when she came

back to Radnor Square I had been at home a day.

I remember her return so well.

My going away and the vivid secret of the present had wiped out from

my mind much of our long estrangement. Something, too, had changed

in her. I had had some hint of it in her letters, but now I saw it

plainly. I came out of my study upon the landing when I heard the

turmoil of her arrival below, and she came upstairs with a quickened

gladness. It was a cold March, and she was dressed in unfamiliar

dark furs that suited her extremely and reinforced the delicate

flush of her sweet face. She held out both her hands to me, and

drew me to her unhesitatingly and kissed me.

"So glad you are back, dear," she said. "Oh! so very glad you are

back."

I returned her kiss with a queer feeling at my heart, too

undifferentiated to be even a definite sense of guilt or meanness.

I think it was chiefly amazement-at the universe-at myself.

"I never knew what it was to be away from you," she said.

I perceived suddenly that she had resolved to end our estrangement.

She put herself so that my arm came caressingly about her.

"These are jolly furs," I said.

"I got them for you."

The parlourmaid appeared below dealing with the maid and the luggage

cab.

"Tell me all about America," said Margaret. "I feel as though you'd

been away six year's."

We went arm in arm into our little sitting-room, and I took off the

fur's for her and sat down upon the chintz-covered sofa by the fire.

She had ordered tea, and came and sat by me. I don't know what I

had expected, but of all things I had certainly not expected this

sudden abolition of our distances.

"I want to know all about America," she repeated, with her eyes

scrutinising me. "Why did you come back?"

I repeated the substance of my letters rather lamely, and she sat

listening.

"But why did you turn back-without going to Denver?"