"So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now alone,
We lean upon some graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I."
She would not think of that nearing future much. She gave herself up to the delights of the present. She was the most fondly worshiped wife in the world. When they went to Paris, he loaded her with costly gifts, splendid dresses, priceless jewels.
"I do not know how I shall ever be able to wear all of these splendid things; they are too fine for me," she said to him, almost afraid of herself in the midst of this splendid paraphernalia.
"Nothing is too costly or too fine for you, my little love," he answered, taking her in his arms and kissing the beautiful face over and over. "You will need all these things when you go into society. When we go home, we will spend our winters in New York, and the women in society there dress like queens. I shall want you to be the finest of them all, as you are decidedly the most beautiful."
He wondered why the fair face grew so pale, why his young wife shivered in his arms, and drooped her eyes from his.
"I hope it will be a long time before we return to New York," she said, almost petulantly. "I like Europe better than America."
"You are a most disloyal subject of the United States," he laughed: "but you shall stay as long as you wish, my darling."