"Bonnibel, I wish I knew of what you are thinking so intently."
"I was hardly thinking at all," she said, quickly. "Some verses were running through my mind that I read this evening in Jean Ingelow's pretty poems. I hardly understood them then, but they seem to suit my feelings now."
"Let me hear them," said Leslie.
"I cannot recall them, except the last verse. The poem was called 'Divided,' and the last verse, which is all that I clearly recollect, ran thus:
"'And yet I know, past all doubting truly—
A knowledge greater than grief can dim—
I know as he loved he will love me duly,
Yea, better, e'en better than I love him.
And as I walk by the vast, calm river,
The awful river so dread to see.
I say, thy breadth and thy depth forever
Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.'"
"Beautiful," said Leslie, as the full voice, tremulous with newly awakened feeling died away. "You must always recall those lines when you think of me, my little one."
The keel grated on the shore. Leslie looked at his watch in the moonlight.
"It is later than I thought," he said, hurriedly, as he helped Bonnibel out upon the shore. "I have but fifteen minutes to reach the station. Darling, I must go to-night, though it nearly kills me to leave you."
She turned quivering and weeping, to throw herself upon his breast.
"Darling, you are not afraid to go to the house alone?" he whispered. "My time is so short!"