I--in that syllable lies the whole history of each human life; in that history lives the individuality; in the clear and true conception of that individuality dwells such joint foreknowledge of the future as we can have, such vague solution as to us is possible of that vast equation in which all quantities are unknown save that alone, that I which we know as we can know nothing else.
"Bury it!" she said.

"Bury that parting--the thing, the word, and the thought--bury it with all others of its kind, with change, and old age, and stealing indifference, and growing coldness, and all that cankers love--bury them all, together, in one wide deep grave--then build on it the house of what we are--" "Change?
Indifference?
I do not know those words," the Wanderer said.
"Have they been in your dreams, love?
They have never been in mine." He spoke tenderly, but with the faintest echo of sadness in his voice.
The mere suggestion that such thoughts could have been near her was enough to pain him.

She was silent, and again her head lay upon his shoulder.

She found there still the rest and the peace.

Knowing her own life, the immensity of his faith and trust in that other woman were made clear by the simple, heartfelt words.