But the girl, when they reached the boundary, leaned over the iron gate and her eyes were fixed northwards.

It was the old story--she sighed for life and he for beauty.

The walls of her prison-house were beautiful things, but not even the lichen and the moss and the peaches which already hung amber and red behind the thick leaves could ever make her wholly forget that they were, in a sense, symbolical--the walls of her life.
"To live here," he murmured, "must be like living in Paradise!" She sighed.

There was a little wistful droop about her lips; her eyes were still fixed northwards.
"I should like," he said, "to tell you a fairy story.

It is about a wife and a little boy." "Whose wife ?" she asked quickly.
"Mine," he replied.
There was a brief silence.