"Beloved, he is so strong and fair, thy son, born the 19th of February."

For a moment Paul closed his eyes, and as once before a choir of seraphims
were singing in his ears.

Then he looked at this minute lock again, and touched it with his
forefinger. The strangest emotion he had ever known quivered through his
being--the concentrated sensation of what he used to feel when his lady had
spoken of their hope--a weird, tremulous, physical thrill. The dear small
curl of hair! The actual, tangible proof of his own living son. He lifted
it with the greatest reverence to his lips, and a mist of joy swam in his
blue eyes. Ah! it was all too wonderful--too divine the thought! The
essence of their great love--this child of his and hers. His and hers!
Yes, their hope had not deceived them. It was true! It was true!

Then his mind rose in passionate worship of his lady. His goddess and
Queen--the mainspring of his watch of life--the supreme and absolute
mistress of his heart and soul. Never had he more madly desired and loved
her than this day. He kissed and kissed her words in deep devotion.

But how and where was she?--was she well?--was she ill? Had she been
suffering? Oh! that he could fly to her. More than ever the terrible gall
of their separation came to him. It was his right, by every law of nature,
to now be by her side.

But she was well--she must be well, or she would have said, and surely he
soon would see her.

It was like a voice from heaven, her little written words, bridging the
impossible--drawing him back to the knowledge and certainty that she was