“It’s like creating—visibly, without hands, but with thoughts—creating a masterpiece—to see the tears come like that——”
He drew a chair to the bench where she sat, her back to the piano. Helen Quiston was away, as usual, for the forenoon.
“It is creating—another world,” she answered steadily.
He stared at her. She saw again that sleepless look.
“You’ve been a whole month on a lofty ridge—just think of it—fasting and pure expression of self—spiritual self-revelation——”
It seemed to him there was a suggestion in what she said for the new book.
“And now you are down in the meadows again,” she finished.
“The earth-sweet meadows—with you.”
He could not know what the words meant to her; that there was no quarter in them for her. She did not belong to his ascents.
“Somehow I always think of you as belonging best to the evenings, the hushed earth, the sweetness of the rest-time. You make me remember what to do, and how to do it well. Why, just now you made me see clearly for a second what I must do next. You make me love people better—when I am close to you.”