"And how sad!" Her strength was going. Every word he said seemed to draw the strength out of her. Her heart yearned to him; her whole soul cried out for him; and only her will resisted. She made one more effort. "No! No!" she cried, "I banished the memories! I banish them now!"
"You could not! You cannot!" he whispered, passionately. "No one can!—Think of these two children: Marjolaine and Jack. Suppose we part them now: suppose they go their different ways: do you think either of them will forget the flowing river, the sheltering elm, or the words they have whispered under it? Never!—Lucy, Lucy—" he was bending over her where she sat, and his voice had all the old thrill—"though we go astray from first love; though we undervalue it; yes! though we desecrate it, it never dies!—On revient toujours à ses premiers amours!"
But the years that had flown! the unrelenting years! what of them?
"We cannot retrace our steps," she said, sadly, "we cannot undo suffering; we cannot win back innocence."
"We can!" he cried. "We started from the garden; we have been a long journey with all its chances and adventures; and now we are at the garden gate again: the flowers we loved are beckoning to us; the birds we loved are calling us; we have but to lift the latch—Lucy, shall we not open the gate and enter the garden?"
"We cannot recall the sunrise—"
"But the sunset can be as beautiful!"
"We are old," she said; but her voice had no conviction. As a matter of fact, at that particular moment she felt she was eighteen.
"I deny it!" he laughed. He felt assured of victory. "Do I feel old? Do you look old?—I can't vault a five-barred gate, but I can open it and get on the other side just as quickly!"
She looked up at him with a wistful smile. "But—but there are other things—"