more beautiful than Sappho, Fiametta, Guinivere themselves; that the
names of the stars were lovelier than any star--who has ever found the
Pleiades so beautiful as their name, or any king so great as the sound
of Orion?--and what, anywhere in the Universe, is lovely enough to bear
Arcturus for its name?--Ah! you know how I used to talk--poor fool, poor
lover of coloured shadows!"

"Yes, dear," said Beatrice soothingly, "but that is passed now, and you
must not dwell too persistently in the sorrow of it, or in your grief
for little Wonder. That too is to dwell with shadows, and to dwell with
shadows either of grief or joy is dangerous for the soul."

"I know. But fear not, Beatrice. Perhaps there was the danger of my
passing from one cloudland to another--for I never knew how I loved our
Wonder till now, and I longed, if only by imagination, to follow her
where she has gone, and share with her the life together we have lost
here--"

"But that can never be," said Beatrice; "you must accept it, Antony. We
shall only meet her again by doing that. The sooner we can say from our
hearts 'She is lost here,' the nearer is she to being found in another
world. Yes, Antony dear, even Wonder's little shadow must be left
behind, if we are to mount together the hills of life."

"My wonderful Beatrice! Yes, the hills of life. No more its woods, but
its hills, bathed in a vast and open sunshine. Look around us--how nobly
simple is every line and shape! Far below the horizon nature is
elaborate, full of fancies,--mazy watercourses, delicate dingles,
fantastically gloomy ravines, misshapen woods, gibbering with diablerie;
but here how simple, how great, how good she is! There is not a shape