“If I were the grass in the green earth growing,
If I were the grass where the wild flowers meet,
I would leave my peace in the morning meadows,
To deck life’s road for your eager feet.”
He ceased, and she looked up, wistfully.
“Isn’t there any more? Oh, make it up!” she pleaded. “Make it up, now!” The book dropped back into the big pocket.
“Make it up now?” he echoed. He put his arm gently about her shoulders, as if he meant to say that he would not hold her against her wish. Then, hesitating, here and there, for the words, he went on:
“Oh, would I were Love—Love’s true art knowing:
Would I were Love—I would wrap you round!
My faith for your home, and my songs for your wending,
And my heart, my heart, for your garden-ground.”
Then, since love and youth must have their way, he kissed her; and found, with her, that her lips had waited for his. In that instant principalities and powers—his kingdom and her village—melted into mist. There were no countries, no degrees, no secret service nor scandal-mongers, no differences of race and place: love had met with love.
They were recalled to Roseborough by the noise of wheels on the gravel drive. Rosamond sprang up in alarm.
“Someone coming here?” he queried. She stopped him.
“Don’t go to the verandah. If you should be seen! Oh, hide!” She ran to the door. “Oh-h.” It was a gasp of relief. “Of course; it is the doctor.” She smiled. Her smile faded, however, instantly; and she interjected again.
“What’s the matter now?” the prince asked.