Hildegarde had turned her filling eyes away, but she faced her friend for the moments of that low crying, “Oh, Bella, Bella, when you think what a miracle it is to find the right one in the maze, how is it that we ever let the right one go?”
Bella released the hand she had taken and turned her head, looking out of the window.
But Hildegarde’s thrilling voice went on: “I wonder we don’t watch at the gate of the Beloved from dawn till night, waiting till he comes. I wonder he doesn’t lie all night at her door, for fear in a dream she may steal away.”
“And yet,” said the other, “in broad daylight each lets the other go.”
“Yes, and with an air of being willing. Of being able to bear their going. And we can’t bear it!” Her dimmed eyes fell on Bella’s beautiful face. “At least, I can’t bear it—or—if I do, it will be because you help me, Butterfly Bella. For you’ve learned how.”
“Yes, I’ve learned how.”
Strange, wonderful little Bella. Hildegarde stared at the slight creature, half-stoic and half-sprite.
“How was it? Why couldn’t Louis see?”
“I tried his patience again and again.”
“You didn’t wait till you got him in a north light for that.”