hunger for life in her!

It had been like an explosion; the barriers had been destroyed
between them, and he saw her as she really was. And he could hardly
believe it--all through the adventures that followed he would find
himself standing in the same kind of daze, whispering to himself--
"Corydon! Little Corydon!"

He did not try to do any work that evening. He thought about her,
and the problem of her life. She had stirred him strangely; he saw
her beautiful with a new kind of beauty. He resolved that he would
put her upon the way to some of the joy she sought.

She came early the next morning, and they sat by the lake-shore and
talked. They talked about the things she needed to study, and how
she should study them; about the books she had read and the books
she was to read next. And from this they went on to a hundred
questions of literature and philosophy and life. They became eager
and excited; their thoughts took wings, and they lost all sense of
time and place. There were so many things to be discussed!

Corydon, in spite of all her anti-clericalism, believed in
immortality; she laid claim to intuitions and illuminations
concerning it. And to Thyrsis, on the other hand, the idea of
immortality was the consummation of all unfaith. To him life was a
bubble upon the stream of time, a shadow of clouds upon the
mountains; there was nothing about it that could be or should be
immortal.

"The act of faith," he cried, "is to give ourselves into the arms of