CHAPTER XXXVII.

Let me recall it--softly,--softly! Let me recall that evening spent with
her!--that evening, the last before darkness rose between us like a solid
wall.

It was evening, at the close of summer. The sun had set, the twilight was
lingering still. We were in the old monastic garden,--garden so quiet,
so cool, so fragrant. She was seated on a bench under the one great
cedar-tree that rose sombre in the midst of the grassy lawn with its
little paradise of flowers. I had thrown myself on the sward at her feet;
her hand so confidingly lay in the clasp of mine. I see her still,--how
young, how fair, how innocent!

Strange, strange! So inexpressibly English; so thoroughly the creature of
our sober, homely life! The pretty delicate white robe that I touch so
timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that so well become the soft
colour of the fair cheek, the wavy silk of the brown hair! She is
murmuring low her answer to my trembling question.

"As well as when last we parted? Do you love me as well still?"

"There is no 'still' written here," said she, softly pressing her
hand to her heart. "Yesterday is as to-morrow in the Forever."

"Ah, Lilian! if I could reply to you in words as akin to poetry as your
own!"