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 keeps on blowing. It is Godhood. It gives us in passing something of its own immutability. Love'—he added after a thoughtful pause—'there is nothing like love for making one feel akin to all past lovers and all unborn lovers to come.'

They looked at each other and both smiled. For the first time Lanice realized that he might have been an ardent lover—a year ago. That, curiously, he was made primarily for love. It would come naturally to him and he had only learned to think since it had failed him. He was curious about her and wished she would tell him what burden love had laid upon her.

She said good-bye to Roger with one foot poised on the step of the diligence that should take her to Bologna. She had decided, without asking any further instruction from her father, to let Hittie lie here in this brighter, clearer land where all the colors are so distinct, but right and wrong curiously foggy. After all, it did not matter, and she would not long lie alone, for soon Roger would lay his cinder of a body beside his 'cousin.' He would not let Lanice stay in Florence to care for him.

'I do not need any one now, Lanice. I did a year ago and she was wonderful. But that part's over—so run along, my dear—and do enjoy yourself. I shall read your literary articles in "Fox's Journal" with the most breathless interest. Do a good one on Tennyson—I mean, don't keep on calling him "The