glimpse into some heaven, and then dropped again, leaving a haunting
memory of sweetness, the more beautiful because indistinct.

"Love--" he said, still dreamily. "Surely there is yet another and a
deeper kind of love."

Halcyone raised her head, while a strange look grew in her wide eyes,
almost of fear. It was as though he had put into words some unspoken,
unadmitted thought.

"Yes," she said very softly, "I feel there is--but that is not all
peace; that must be gloriously terrible, because it would mean life."

He looked at her fully now; there was not an atom of coquetry or
challenge; her face was pale and exquisite in its simple intentness. He
turned to the goddess again, and almost chaunted:

"Oh! Aphrodite of the divine lips and soulful eyes, what mystery do you
hold for us mortals? What do you promise us? What do you make us pay? Is
the good worth the anguish? Is the fulfillment a cup worth
draining--without counting the cost?"

"What does she answer you?" whispered Halcyone. "Does she say that to
live and fulfill destiny as the beautiful year does is the only good? It
is wiser not to question and weigh the worth, for even though we would
not drink, perhaps we cannot escape--since there is Fate."

John Derringham pulled himself together with an effort. He felt he was
drifting into wonderland, where the paths were too tenderly sweet and
flowered for him to dare to linger, for there he might find and quaff of