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 last with a humbled gratitude and a secret pledge to be worthy of such devotion if it were possible—until, like a pair of children under their tree, she leaning against his shoulder, holding hands, they looked out on the future with shining eyes, trusting it with the hope of their hearts.

She was to be a singer, perhaps in grand opera, surely on the concert stage; and he was to keep busy with his books while she was working with her music. They would meet in New York—that London of ambitious young Canadians. He would find something there for him to do. "They have so much money," he said, "they'll not miss the few thousands I'll need." He inspired her, for the moment, with some of his confidence, and she tried to trust herself as much as he trusted her. When she fell silent, regretting the loss of girlish irresponsibility and heart-freedom which these plans required of her, feeling her hand held where her inclination was only reluctantly settled, he saw the shadow in her face again, and said: "Don't worry, now. Leave it to me. I'll make it come true. I always have."

She sighed. "It isn't that. It isn't you. It's myself I'm afraid of."

"I know," he said. "I'll make you come true, too."

She smiled doubtfully, watching a cloud that had furled itself across the sun, above the far shore of the river, low on the horizon. How low it was—the sun! "What time is it?" She drew her watch from her belt. "Goodness!" she cried. "It's nearly six o'clock."