"Yes, Guida, but after a while we stop trying to follow and see and find,
and we walk in the old paths and take things as they are."

"Have you stopped?" she said to him wistfully. "Oh, no, not
altogether," he replied, dropping his tones to tenderness, "for I've been
trying to peep over a hedge this afternoon, and I haven't done it yet."
"Have you?" she rejoined, then paused, for the look in his eyes
embarrassed her. . . . "Why do you look at me like that?" she added
tremulously.

"Guida," he said earnestly, leaning towards her, "a month ago I asked you
if you would listen to me when I told you of my love, and you said you
would. Well, sometimes when we have met since, I have told you the same
story, and you've kept your promise and listened. Guida, I want to go on
telling you the same story for a long time--even till you or I die."

"Do you--ah, then, do you?" she asked simply. "Do you really wish
that?"

"It is the greatest wish of my life, and always will be," he added,
taking her unresisting hands.

"I like to hear you say it," she answered simply, "and it cannot be
wrong, can it? Is there any wrong in my listening to you? Yet why
do I feel that it is not quite right?--sometimes I do feel that."

"One thing will make all right," he said eagerly; "one thing. I love
you, Guida, love you devotedly. Do you--tell me if you love me? Do not
fear to tell me, dearest, for then will come the thing that makes all
right."