hands stretched out, palms upward, with coaxing fingers. She seemed lost
in it. Her eyes rippled, her lips pressed slightly, a delicate wine
crept through her cheek, and tenderness wimpled all. Her soft breast
rose modestly to the cool texture of her dress. Hilton felt his blood
bound joyfully; he had the wish of instant possession. But yet he could
not stir, she held him so; for a change immediately passed upon her. She
glided slowly from that almost statue-like repose into another gesture.
Her eyes drew up from his, and looked away to plumbless distance, all
glowing and childlike, and the new ciphers slowly said:

"But the spring dies away. We can only see a thing born once. And it
may be ours, yet not ours. I have sighted the perfect Sharon-flower, far
up on Guidon, yet it was not mine; it was too distant; I could not reach
it. I have seen the silver bullfinch floating along the canon. I called
to it, and it came singing; and it was mine, yet I could not hear its
song, and I let it go; it could not be happy so with me. . . .
I stand at the gate of a great city, and see all, and feel the great
shuttles of sounds, the roar and clack of wheels, the horses' hoofs
striking the ground, the hammer of bells; all: and yet it is not mine;
it is far, far away from me. It is one world, mine is another; and
sometimes it is lonely, and the best things are not for me. But I have
seen them, and it is pleasant to remember, and nothing can take from us
the hour when things were born, when we saw the spring--nothing--never!"

Her manner of speech, as this went on, became exquisite in fineness,
slower, and more dream-like, until, with downward protesting motions of
the hand, she said that "nothing--never!" Then a great sigh surged up
her throat, her lips parted slightly, showing the warm moist whiteness of
her teeth, her hands falling lightly, drew together and folded in front
of her. She stood still.