She raised her white hands to him and drew one step nearer. Then she yielded herself to his arms and, as they closed, strong and tight, about her, her own arms circled his neck.

The scent of the Azure Rose returned with her lips: a vision of mountain-peaks and sunlight upon crests of snow, a perfume sweeter than the scent of any rose in any garden, a poem in a language that Cartaret at last could understand.

Her lips met his....

“Oh,” he whispered, “sweetheart, is it really, really you?”

“Yes,” said the lady of the Rose, “it—is me!”

THE END.

ENVOI: THE SON OF JOEL.

The poet is a beggar blind
That sits beside a city gate,
The while the busy people wind
Their daily way, less fortunate.

The many pass with slavish speed;
The few remember this or that;
Some hear and jeer, some stop to heed—
And some drop pennies in his hat....