At noon when they had eaten—Hugh and Janet slipped away. She played for him. The tones were richer than before. Into the sadness had been poured the burning heat of pure love.
V
They had both known what they had thought was love,—among flowers, dances, the lovely but artificial things of life—
But here—among the dying—blood, privation, life divested of its mantles and laid bare—the true love sprang up between these two. Something more than love. A perfect understanding of each—like the treble and the base of a symphony—
In the still hours of twilight Hugh and Janet would sit in the organ loft together, speaking the enchanted language only lovers know—made dearer by the phantom of separation ever near them.
Dearest, when the Regiment has called me back, play each day at twilight—the Miserere. If—in the trenches—I shall know your soul is calling to mine—if, beyond, my soul will drink from the depths of yours——
Snow was falling.
Goodbye, dear, he whispered—
Now even the organ could not calm. She had tasted the sweet of life—and it had been torn away. For what—