"Yes, with all my heart and soul and strength and will. There isn't a fibre of me that doesn't love you."
"For always?"
"Yes, for always."
And so they chanted the lover's litany until even the afterglow had died out of the sky. Edith released herself from his clinging arms. "We must go," she sighed. "It's getting late."
If
He assisted her to her feet, and led her to the boat, moored in shallows that made a murmurous singing all around it and upon the shore. He took her hand to help her in, then paused.
"If love were all," he asked, "what would you do?"
"If love were all," she answered, "I'd put my arms around you, like this, never to be unclasped again. I'd go with you to-night, to the end of the world, and ask for nothing but that we might be together. I'd face the heat of the desert uncomplainingly, the cold of perpetual snows. I'd bear anything, suffer anything, do anything. I'd so merge my life with yours that one heart-beat would serve us both, and when we died, we'd go together—if love were all."
"God bless you, dear!" he murmured, with his lips against hers.
"And you. Come."