"Until spring?" "It is written that Time shall pass as a shadow across the sea. What
is that book there under your feet--that iron-bound book, half embedded
like a stone in the grass." "I did not see it!" "Bring it to me." I raised the book; it left a bare mark in the sod as a stone that is
turned. Then, holding it on my knees, I opened it, and Sweetheart,
leaning on my shoulder, read. The tall stars flared like candles,
flooding the page with diamond light; the earth, perfumed with
blossoms, stirred with the vague vibration of countless sounds, tiny
voices swaying breathless in the hidden surge of an endless harmony. "The white shadow is the shadow of the soul," she read. Even the winds
were hushed as her sweet lips moved. "And what shall make thee to understand what hell is?... When the
sun shall be folded up as a garment that is laid away; when the stars
fall, and the seas boil, and when souls shall be joined again to their
bodies; and when the girl who hath been buried alive shall be asked
for what crime; when books shall be laid open, when hell shall burn
fiercely, and when paradise shall be brought very near:

"Every soul shall know what it hath wrought!" I closed my eyes; the splendour of the starlight on the page was more
than my eyes could bear. But she read on; for what can dim her eyes? "O man, verily, labouring, thou labourest to meet thy LORD. "And thou shalt meet HIM! "When the earth shall be stretched like a skin, and shall cast forth
that which is therein;

"By the heaven adorned with signs, by the witness and the witnessed;

"By that which appeareth by night; by the daybreak and the ten
nights--the ten nights;

"The night of Al Kadr is better than a thousand months. "Praise be to God, the Lord of all creatures; the Most Merciful, the
King of the Day of Judgment. Thee do we worship, and of thee do we beg
assistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whom
thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom thou art incensed,
nor of those who go astray!" *       *       *       *       *

In the sudden silence that spread across earth and heaven I heard the
sound of a voice under the earth, calling, calling, calling. "It is already spring," said Sweetheart; and she rose, placing her
white hands in mine. "Shall we go?" "But we are already there," I stammered, turning my eyes fearfully; for
the tall pines dwindled and clustered and rose again cool and gray in
the morning air, all turned to stone, fretted and carved like lacework;
and where the pines had faded, the twin towers of a cathedral loomed;
and where the hills swept across the horizon, the roofs of a white city
glimmered in the morning sun. Bridges and quays and streets and domes
and the hum of traffic and rattle of arms; and over all, the veil of
haze and the twin gray towers of Notre Dame! "Sweetheart!" I faltered. But we were already in my studio. IV. The studio had not changed. The sun flooded it. Sweetheart sat in the broken armchair and watched me struggle with the
packing. Every now and then she made an impulsive movement toward the
heap of clothes on the floor, which I checked with a "Thanks! I can fix
it all alone, Sweetheart." Clifford seemed to extract amusement from it all, and said as much to
Rowden, who was as usual ruining my zitherine by trying to play it like
a banjo. Elliott, knowing he could be of no use to us, had the decency to
sit outside the studio on one of the garden benches. He appeared at
intervals at the studio door, saying, "Come along, Clifford; they don't
want you messing about. Drop that banjo, Rowden, or Jack will break
your head with it--won't you, Jack?" I said I would, but not with the zitherine. Clifford flatly refused to move unless Sweetheart would take him
out into our garden and show him the solitary goldfish which lurked
in the fountain under the almond trees. But Sweetheart, apparently
fascinated by the mysteries of packing, turned a deaf ear to Clifford's
blandishments and Rowden's discords. "I imagined," said Clifford, somewhat hurt, "that you would delight in
taking upon yourself the duties of a hostess. I should be pleased to
believe that I am not an unwelcome guest." "So should I," echoed Rowden; "I'd be pleased too." "What a shame for you to bother, Jack!" she said. "Mr. Clifford shall
go and make some tea directly. Mr. Rowden, you may take a table out by
the fountain--and stay there." Clifford, motioning Elliott to take the other end of the Japanese
table, backed with it through the hallway and out to the gravel walk,
expostulating. "The sugar is there in that tin box by the model stand," she said, when
he reappeared, "and the extra spoons are lying in a long box on Jack's
big easel." When Rowden, reluctantly relinquishing the zitherine, followed
Clifford, bearing the cups and alcohol lamp, I raised my head and
wiped the dust from my forehead. I believe I swore a little in French. Sweetheart looked startled. She knew more French than I supposed she
did. "What is it, Jack?" "Mais--rien, ça m'embête--cette espèce de malle----"

"Then why won't you let me help you, Jack? I can at least put in my
gowns." "But I must pack my colour box first, and the gun case, and the
box of reels, and the pastel case, and our shooting boots, and the
water-colour box, and the cartridge belt, and your golf shoes, and----"

"O dear!" said Sweetheart with a shudder. I stood up and scowled at the trunk. "To look at you, Jack," murmured Sweetheart, "one might think you
unhappy." Unhappy! At the thought our eyes met across the table. "Unhappy!" I whispered. Then Clifford came stumbling in, wearing a pair of Joseph's sabots,
and, imitating that faithful domestic in voice and manner, invited us
to tea under the lilacs and almond blossoms. "In a moment," cried Sweetheart impatiently. "Go and pour the tea." Clifford looked aghast. "No, no!" he cried; "it's impossible--I won't
believe that you two are deliberately getting rid of me so you can be
alone to spoon! And your honeymoon already a year old, and----"

Sweetheart frowned, and tapped her foot. Clifford retired indignant. Then she raised her eyes to mine, and a delicate colour stained her
cheeks and neck. "Yes," I said, "we have been married nearly a year, Sweetheart." We looked at our white shadows on the floor. V.

Sweetheart sat under the lilac blossoms pouring out tea for Clifford,
Elliott, and Rowden. She was gracious to Clifford, gentle to Elliott,
and she took Rowden under her wing in the sweetest way possible, to
which Clifford stated his objections. "Mr. Rowden is younger than you are," she said gravely. "Monsieur
Clifford, I do not wish you to torment him." "Rowden's no baby; he's as old as Jack is, and Jack doesn't murder
music." "I am glad to see you acknowledge Jack's superiority in all matters,"
said Sweetheart with a dangerous smile. "I don't," cried Clifford laughing; "and I don't see what you find
to care about in a man who clips his hair like a gendarme and paints
everything purple."