“And do you remember, Thyrsis, how we prayed! How we prayed for this very hour!”
He took her hands in his. Once more they renewed their pledges of devotion; once more the vision of their hopes unrolled before them. “From now on,” he whispered, “our life is our own! We can make it whatever we will. Let us make it something beautiful.”
And so there they made a compact. They would speak no more of the year that was past; it was a bad dream, and now it was gone. Let it be swept from their thoughts, and let them go on to make the future what they desired it to be.
BOOK XII. THE TREADMILL
They sat in the little cabin, where she had been reading some lines from the poem again—
“O easy access to the hearer’s grace
When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine!”
“Ah, yes!” he said. “But our lot was cast in a different time.”
She put her hand upon his. “Even so,” she said; and then turned the page, and read once more—