“Are you happy, sweetheart, tell me?�
“Ah, François,� she answered, “we are too happy—’tis that—I am afraid!�
“Of what, dear heart?� he asked gently, “surely, not that our love can die?�
“Not that,� she replied, “not that! I have been light of heart, careless as a child. I never was afraid before, but now—oh, François, if you were taken from me it would kill me.�
He clasped her close, laying his cheek against her soft one.
“But that could not be,� he said soothingly; “not even death could part us save for a little while, my heart, for our souls are immortal—and they are one.�
She clung to him, her eyes full of tenderness.
“’Tis so,� she murmured, “our souls are immortal, I never felt it so strongly before! Love touches the heart and all the world is different—ah, mon Dieu, ’tis thy gift to us! See, François,� she added, “is not the world more beautiful, the sky more tender? Do not the birds sing more sweetly to-day? And is it because we love?�
“It must be so, my Rosaline,� he answered gently; “the Garden of Eden must have blossomed so to welcome Eve—and love makes the world more beautiful each day.�
“And it shall make me better,� she rejoined; “’tis said that sorrow refines the heart, but it is joy that fills it with kindness. I am sure of it, for I was never half so full of pity for the unhappy as I am now; my cup overflows and others thirst. Ah, François, let us be good to others always, for that is love.�