"Two separate divided silences,
Which, brought together, would find loving voice;
Two glances which together would rejoice
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;
Two hands apart, whose touch alone gives ease;
Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,
Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:—
Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast
Indeed one hour again, when on this stream
Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?—
An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,—
Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,
Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream."
For a moment the silence was tense. Then the hall clock struck the hour of midnight. It beat upon their senses like a funeral knell. Then Edith, white-faced, and struggling valiantly for self-control, reached out her hand for the book.
Good-bye
"Good-night, Boy," she said, "for the last time."
"Good-night," he answered, gathering her into his arms.
"And good-bye, Boy, forever!"
"Forever," he echoed, "good-bye!"
He kissed her again, not with passion, but with the love that has risen above it. Then she released herself, and, holding the little red book against her heart, ran quickly up-stairs.
He waited until the echo of her footsteps had died away, and her door had closed softly. Then he put out the lights, and sat there for a long time in the darkness, thinking, before he went to his room.