shadowed her own distress. She was fretted to her soul.
“Come!” she said quietly to Siegmund, no longer resenting the completeness of his happiness, which left her unnecessary to him.
“We will leave the poor invalid in possession of our green hollow—so quiet,” she said to herself.
They sauntered downwards towards the bay. Helena was brooding on her own state, after her own fashion.
“The Mist Spirit,” she said to herself. “The Mist Spirit draws a curtain round us—it is very kind. A heavy gold curtain sometimes; a thin, torn curtain sometimes. I want the Mist Spirit to close the curtain again. I do not want to think of the outside. I am afraid of the outside, and I am afraid when the curtain tears open in rags. I want to be in our own fine world inside the heavy gold mist-curtain.”
As if in answer or in protest to her thoughts, Siegmund said:
“Do you want anything better than this, dear? Shall we come here next year, and stay for a whole month?”
“If there be any next year,” said she.
Siegmund did not reply.
She wondered if he had really spoken in sincerity, or if he, too, were mocking fate. They walked slowly through the broiling sun towards their lodging.
“There will be an end to this,” said Helena, communing with herself. “And when we come out of the mist-curtain, what will it be? No matter—let come what will. All along Fate has been resolving, from the very beginning, resolving obvious discords, gradu-
