She took his arm, smiled into his face, but made no answer.
They went back to the carriage, took leave of their artist, and drove slowly to the town.
"I hope that mamma likes the idea of the fountain," the duchess said thoughtfully.
MARY AGNES TINCKER.
[THE END.]
* * * * *
EPITAPH WRITTEN IN THE SAND ON A BUTTERFLY DROWNED IN THE SEA.
Poor Psyche, to a Power supernal wed,
How strong a fate on this thy frailness fell!
What strange ironic word shall here be read?
Dead sign of immortality, farewell!
I sigh not that the summer fields have lost
One flying flower: who counts the butterflies?
I sigh not that thy sunny hour was crossed:
The self-same Shadow surely waits mine eyes,
Thy piteous terror of the appointed end,
For this I sigh! The billow, poised above,
Fell on thee like a beast that leaps to rend:
Thou couldst not know thy bridegroom Death was Love!