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242 freedom, "and is as little likely to be revived again as a body that has lain in the earth until it has fallen into dust."

"And she?" I ask, involuntarily.

"Has forgotten," he says; "why should she remember me? In fact, she seems positively to dislike me; never looks at or notices me, and I don't think we have exchanged twenty words."

"Yes," I say to myself, "and that is what makes me so sure. If she ever looked at or talked to you as to any one else" But in him love is surely, certainly dead, for jealousy is the very pith and marrow of the passion, and he does not feel a single twinge.

"She does not care for him!" I say, stoutly; "I have seen real lovers often: they are different. These are sham ones; to watch them is like looking at make-believe feasts, like we used to have at home."

Paul is loyal even to his buried love. He does not say, "She is a coquette to the heart's core; she can never really care for any one." And I honour him as he holds his peace and says nothing.

It is a glorious afternoon. The hum of insects and birds is all about us; the ripe earth seems to hold the year's full perfection in her lap, like a gold flower that is wrought to its uttermost beauty. All too soon, alas! will it tremble and fade and wither away, for does not decay tread ever on the heels of all absolutely fair and lovely things? It is the common, ugly, everyday belongings that are never taken from us.

"And to-morrow this time," I say, as we turn back towards the house, following the gracefully interwoven forms of my sister and brother-in-law, "you will be perfectly happy among the birds! I wonder if any instinct tells them that this is their last day on earth?"

"It is to be hoped not! And what will you be doing?"