There are barriers which he may not pass, secret treasures that he may
not see, dreams that he may not guess. There are dark corners where
there has been torture, of which he will never know. There are shadows
and ghostly shapes which Penelope has hidden with the fairest fabrics of
her loom. There are doors, tightly locked, which he has no key to open;
rooms which have contained costly vessels, empty and deep with dust.

There is no other step than his, for he walks there alone; sometimes to
the music of dead days and sometimes to the laughter of a little child.
The petals of crushed roses rustle at his feet--his roses--in the inmost
places of her heart. And beyond, of spotless marble, with the infinite
calm of mountains and perpetual snow, is something which he seldom
comprehends--her love of her own whiteness.

It is a wondrous thing. For it is so small he could hold it in the
hollow of his hand, yet it is great enough to shelter him forever. All
the world may not break it if his love is steadfast and unchanging, and
loving him, it becomes deep enough to love and pity all the world.

It is a tender thing. So often is it wounded that it cannot see another
suffer, and its own pain is easier far to bear. It makes a shield of its
very tenderness, gladly receiving the stabs that were meant for him,
forgiving always, and forgetting when it may.

[Sidenote: The Solace]

Yet, after all, it is a simple thing. For in times of deepest doubt and
trouble, it requires for its solace only the tender look, the whispered
word which brings new courage, and the old-time grace of the lover's