It was Daunt’s song, the one he most loved to hear her sing. But to-day it had a new, rich meaning. She stretched her hands on either side, grasping the seat, and sang on to the bending boughs, rubbing slowly against the weather-stained beam arms above her head:
“Dear, to-day shall never rust!
What, are we to be o’erwise?
All that doth not smell of dust
Lieth in your lips and eyes.
So, while loving yet may be,
Bend and fold me; Sweet, kiss me!”
The shade grew darker as she sat. It deepened the brown of her eyes and the sea-bloom in her cheeks, and the loitering lilac of the west touched the coils of her hair, as they lay against the gray board, blotting with their living bronze the half-effaced, forgotten inscription:
Pray for Her Soul.