some far-travelled sea-wind bringing faint strains from that sunken
harp, strains too subtle for the ear, and even unrecognised by the mind?




CHAPTER XIX


LAST TALK ON THE HILLS

Beatrice's prayer had been answered. Antony had come back to her. She
was necessary to him once more. The old look was in his eyes, the old
sound in his voice. One day as they were out together she was so
conscious of this happiness returned that she could not forbear speaking
of it--with an inner feeling that it was better to be happy in silence.

What is that instinct in us which tells us that we risk our happiness in
speaking of it? Happiness is such a frightened thing that it flies at
the sound of its own name. And yet of what shall we speak if not our
happiness? Of our sorrows we can keep silence, but our joys we long to
utter.

So Beatrice spoke of her great happiness to Antony, and told him too of
her old great unhappiness and her longing for death.

"What a strange and terrible dream it has been--but thank God, we are
out in the daylight at last," said Antony. "O my little Beatrice, to
think that I could have forsaken you like that! Surely if you had come
and taken me by the hands and looked deep into my eyes, and called me