This one, this and no other, chosen from out the myriads of human souls.

Individuality the servant of passion; mysteries read undoubtingly with the eye of longing.

Bead perhaps so truly; who knows?
She came nearer, imperceptibly, her raised face aglow like the morning.
'Wilfrid--you believe--you know that I love you ?' The last word breathed out in the touching of lips with lips.

What could he reply, save those old, simple words of tenderness, that small vocabulary of love, common to child and man?
The goddess that made herself woman for his sake--see, did he not hold her clasped to him! But she was mute again.

The birds sang so loudly round about them, uttered their hearts so easily, but Emily could only speak through silence.