| CHAPTER | PAGE | |
| [I.] | “The Rain set early in To-night” | [1] |
| [II.] | “But the Days drop One by One” | [18] |
| [III.] | “Oh Moment One and Infinite!” | [33] |
| [IV.] | “Dreaming, she knew it was a Dream” | [50] |
| [V.] | “And the Child-cheek blushing Scarlet for the very Shame of Bliss” | [61] |
| [VI.] | “A Love still burning upward” | [73] |
| [VII.] | “Look through mine Eyes with thine, True Wife” | [91] |
| [VIII.] | My Frolic Falcon, with Bright Eyes | [99] |
| [IX.] | “Lies Nothing buried long ago?” | [114] |
| [X.] | “Of the Weak my Heart is Weakest” | [124] |
| [XI.] | “Where the Cold Sea raves” | [142] |
| [XII.] | “Far, too far off for Thought or any Prayer” | [153] |
| [XIII.] | “Under the Pine-wood, Blind with Boughs” | [159] |
| [XIV.] | “Say the False Charge was True” | [169] |
| [XV.] | “My Life continues yours, and your Life mine” | [186] |
| [XVI.] | “Sorrow that’s Deeper than we dream, perchance” | [197] |
| [XVII.] | “The Year of the Rose is Brief” | [202] |
| [XVIII.] | “No Sudden Fancy of an Ardent Boy” | [207] |
| [XIX.] | “I have you still, the Sun comes out again” | [222] |
| [XX.] | “Thou Paradise of Exiles, Italy” | [230] |
| [XXI.] | “The Woods are round us, Heaped and Dim” | [241] |
| [XXII.] | Ecco Roma | [248] |
| [XXIII.] | “Seek Shelter in the Shadow of the Tomb” | [255] |
| [XXIV.] | “Oh, Old Thoughts they cling, they cling!” | [267] |
| [XXV.] | “We’ll bind you Fast in Silken Cords” | [273] |
| [XXVI.] | “So, Full Content shall henceforth be my Lot” | [282] |
| [XXVII.] | “Gone Deeper than all Plummets sound” | [292] |
| [XXVIII.] | “Though Love and Life and Death should come and go” | [301] |
| [XXIX.] | “I, you, and God can comprehend each other” | [318] |
ALL ALONG THE RIVER.
“THE RAIN SET EARLY IN TO-NIGHT.”
It had been raining all the morning, and it was raining still, in that feeble and desultory manner which presages a change of some kind, when the postman came with the long-expected Indian letter.
He was later than usual. It was nearly two o’clock, and Isola had been watching for him since one, watching with an unread book in her lap, listening for the click of the gate. She had been sitting by the open window, looking out at the wet landscape, the glistening hedgerow and dull grey river, with the great, green hill beyond, a steep slope of meadow land, dotted with red cattle, and so divided by hedgerows, as to look like a Titanic chessboard.
At last she heard the familiar tread of the postman’s heavy boots, and saw his shining oilskin hat moving above the edge of the hollies, and heard the click of the iron latch as he came into the little garden.
She called to him from the window, and he came tramping across the sodden grass and put three letters into her outstretched hand.