these two creatures, stranded by illness, "out of the world's way,
hidden apart." At the feast of pure, unselfish, romantic love that
followed, there was always a death's-head present, always the sinking
fear, always the mute resignation on one side or the other. Death and
love have been a combination that poets have used since the world
began. And so, as the early snow whitened the pines on the hilltops of
Savoy, this pathetic and ultra-sentimental love-affair between the
banished _Parisienne_ and the poet had its beginning. That it could
have but one ending the reader knows from the start. But with what
breathless interest do we follow this history of love! We seem to be
admitted to the confidences of beings of another sphere, to celestial
heights of affection. We hear the heart-beats and see the glances of
the languid, languorous eyes. The universe itself seems to stand still
for these two lovers. Their heads are among the stars, their hearts in
heaven. Their love is as pure as a sonnet of Keats, as ineffable as
shimmering starlight. Day by day we trace its current, we cannot say
growth because it sprang into life full-grown. Although Julie said that
"her life was not worth a tear," she caused torrents of tears to flow.
From the first, their love seemed centuries old, so entirely was it a
part of their being. Day after day their souls were revealed to each
other, their hearts became more united. Every pure chord of psychic
affection was struck, even almost to the distracting discord of suicide
together, that they might never part, and from which they were saved as
by a miracle. In such unsullied love, there is an element of worship.
It is the sublimation of passion, freed from sensuous dross, a
spiritual efflorescence, a white flame of the soul.

The parting of the lover, the pursuit, their meeting again in Julie's
home in Paris, the flickering candle of her waning life, burning down
to its socket, the touching interchange of letters, the gathering