"Edith, sweet Lady of the May," whispered he, reproachfully, "is yon
wreath of roses a garland to hang above our graves that you look so
sad? Oh, Edith, this is our golden time. Tarnish it not by any pensive
shadow of the mind, for it may be that nothing of futurity will be
brighter than the mere remembrance of what is now passing."

"That was the very thought that saddened me. How came it in your mind
too?" said Edith, in a still lower tone than he; for it was high
treason to be sad at Merry Mount. "Therefore do I sigh amid this
festive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream,
and fancy that these shapes of our jovial friends are visionary and
their mirth unreal, and that we are no true lord and lady of the May.
What is the mystery in my heart?"

Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower
of withering rose-leaves from the Maypole. Alas for the young lovers!
No sooner had their hearts glowed with real passion than they were
sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their former
pleasures, and felt a dreary presentiment of inevitable change. From
the moment that they truly loved they had subjected themselves to
earth's doom of care and sorrow and troubled joy, and had no more a
home at Merry Mount. That was Edith's mystery. Now leave we the priest
to marry them, and the masquers to sport round the Maypole till the
last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit and the shadows of the
forest mingle gloomily in the dance. Meanwhile, we may discover who
these gay people were.

Two hundred years ago, and more, the Old World and its inhabitants
became mutually weary of each other. Men voyaged by thousands to the
West--some to barter glass and such like jewels for the furs of the