sat together, one summer evening, in a bower of jasmine, with their
boy playing at their feet. There had been music in the garden; but
now the singers and lute-players had withdrawn, leaving the master
and mistress alone in the lingering twilight, tremulous with
inarticulate melody of unseen birds. There was a secret voice in the
hour seeking vainly for utterance--a word waiting to be spoken at
the centre of the charm.

"How deep is our happiness, my beloved!" said Hermas; "deeper than
the sea that slumbers yonder, below the city. And yet I feel it is
not quite full and perfect. There is a depth of joy that we have not
yet known--a repose of happiness that is still beyond us. What is
it? I have no superstitious fears, like the king who cast his
signet-ring into the sea because he dreaded that some secret
vengeance would fall on his unbroken good fortune. That was an idle
terror. But there is something that oppresses me like an invisible
burden. There is something still undone, unspoken, unfelt--
something that we need to complete everything. Have you not felt
it, too? Can you not lead me to it?"

"Yes," she answered, lifting her eyes to his face; "I, too, have
felt it, Hermas, this burden, this need, this unsatisfied longing. I
think I know what it means. It is gratitude--the language of the
heart, the music of happiness. There is no perfect joy without
gratitude. But we have never learned it, and the want of it troubles
us. It is like being dumb with a heart full of love. We must find
the word for it, and say it together. Then we shall be perfectly
joined in perfect joy. Come, my dear lord, let us take the boy with
us, and give thanks."