"I had a long walk to-day," she went on, "and it made me sleepy. Look," she continued, going to the mantel where she had left the book. "See what I found on top of a hill, in a crevice between an oak and a log that lay against it. Do you think some pair of rural lovers left it there?"
"Possibly," he replied. If the sight of the book he had loaned Rosemary awoke any emotion, or even a memory, he did not show it. "Sit down," he suggested, imperturbably, "and let me see if I can't find a sonnet that fits you. Yes, surely—here it is. Listen."
She rested her head upon her hand and turned her face away from him. In his smooth, well-modulated voice, he read:
Alden Reads a Sonnet
HER GIFTS
High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal
Some wood-born wonder's sweet simplicity;
A glance like water brimming with the sky
Or hyacinth-light where forest shadows fall;
Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthral
The heart; a mouth whose passionate forms imply
All music and all silence held thereby;
Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal;
A round reared neck, meet column of Love's shrine
To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary;
Hands which forever at Love's bidding be,
And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:—
These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o'er.
Breathe low her name, my soul, for that means more.
Her heart beat wildly and her colour came and went, but, with difficulty, she controlled herself until he reached the end. When she rose, he rose also, dropping the book.
"Mrs. Lee—Edith!"
"Yes," she said, with a supreme effort at self-command, "it is a pretty name, isn't it?" She was very pale, but she offered him her hand. "I really must go now," she continued, "for I am tired. Thank you—and good-night."
Alden did not answer—in words. He took the hand she offered him, held it firmly in his own, stooped, and kissed the hollow of her elbow, just below the sleeve.