But so it is continually; and since IT IS, it must be right.
We finished the morning by reading Shakspeare--Romeo and Juliet--at which the old folio seemed naturally to open.

There is a time--a sweet time, too, though it does not last--when to every young mind the play of plays, the poem of poems, is Romeo and Juliet.

We were at that phase now.
John read it all through to me--not for the first time either; and then, thinking I had fallen asleep, he sat with the book on his knee, gazing out of the open window.
It was a warm summer day--breathless, soundless--a day for quietness and dreams.

Sometimes a bee came buzzing among the roses, in and away again, like a happy thought.

Nothing else was stirring; not a single bird was to be seen or heard, except that now and then came a coo of the wood-pigeons among the beech-trees--a low, tender voice--reminding one of a mother's crooning over a cradled child; or of two true lovers standing clasped heart to heart, in the first embrace, which finds not, and needs not, a single word.
John sat listening.