"Yes! You have not forgotten?" said Beatrice, with the ray of a lost
happiness in her eyes--lost, and yet could it be dawning again? There
was a morning star in Antony's face.

"And then," said Antony, "we went into the valley--the Valley of Beauty
and Death."

Beatrice pressed his hand and looked all her love at him for comfort. He
knew how precious was such a forgiveness, the forgiveness of a mother
heart broken for the child, which he, directly or indirectly, had
sacrificed,--directly as he and Wonder alone knew, indirectly by taking
them with him into the Valley of Beauty.

"Ah, Beatrice, your love is almost greater than I can bear. I am not
worthy of it. I never shall be worthy. There is something in the love of
a woman like you to which the best man is unequal. We can love--and
greatly--but it is not the same."

"We went into the valley," he cried, "and I lost you your little
Wonder--"

"_Our_ little Wonder," gently corrected Beatrice. "We found her
together, and we lost her together. Perhaps some day we shall find her
together again--"

"And do you know, Antony," Beatrice continued, "I sometimes wonder if
her little soul was not sent and so taken away all as part of a mission
to us, which in its turn is a part of the working out of her own
destiny. For life is very mysterious, Antony--"