But something troubled her, and after a minute she pushed you away and tried to renounce you.
"But it is not Thursday," she sobbed; "it is Wednesday; and my name is not 'Clarice'; it is Ladykin."
Then all the boyishness died out of you—the sweet, idle reveries, the mystic responsibilities. You shook your Father's dream from your eyes, and squared your shoulders for your own realities.
"A Man must make his own Happy-Day," you cried, "and a Man must choose his own Mate!"
Before your vehemence Ladykin winced back against the rock and eyed you fearsomely.
"Oh, I will love you and cherish you," you pleaded.
But Ladykin shook her head. "That is not enough," she whispered. There was a kind of holy scorn in her eyes.
Then a White Gull flashed like an apparition before your sight. Ladykin's whole figure drooped, her cheek paled, her little mouth quivered, her vision narrowed. There with her eyes on the White Gull and your eyes fixed on hers, you saw her shy thoughts journey into the Future. You saw her eyes smile, sadden, brim with tears, smile again, and come homing back to you with a timid, glad surprise as she realized that your thoughts too had gone all the long journey with her.
She reached out one little hand to you. It was very cold.
"If I should pass like the flash of a white wing," she questioned, "would you be true to me—and mine?"