"Now perhaps you can read me your poem," said Angel, after a while; and
she noticed a curious something different in her way of speaking to him,
as in his way of speaking to her,--something blissfully homelike, as it
were, as though they had sat like this for ever and ever, and were quite
used to it, though at the same time it remained thrillingly new.

"It's only a silly little childish rhyme," said Henry; "some day I'll
write you far better."

Then, coming close to Angel, he whispered,--

This is Angelica,
Fallen from heaven,
Fallen from heaven
Into my arms.

Will you go back again,
Little Angelica,
Back up to heaven,
Out of my arms!

"No," said Angelica,
"Here is my heaven,
Here is my heaven,
Here in your arms.

"Not out of heaven,
But into my heaven,
Here have I fallen,