“Swing me,” she ordered.
He aided the wind to give a wider sweep to the hammock. Io stirred restlessly.
“You’ve broken the spell,” she accused softly. “Weave me another one.”
“What shall it be?” He bent over the armful of books which he had brought out.
“You choose this time.”
“I wonder,” he mused, regarding her consideringly.
“Ah, you may well wonder! I’m in a very special mood to-day.”
“When aren’t you, Butterfly?” he laughed.
“Beware that you don’t spoil it. Choose well, or forever after hold your peace.”
He lifted the well-worn and well-loved volume of poetry. It parted in his hand to the Rossetti sonnet. He began to read at the lines: