a voice perfect in restrained sadness and resignation.
“No, my dear, no. The threads of my life were untwined; they drifted about like floating threads of gossamer; and you didn’t put out your hand to take them and twist them up into the chord with yours. Now another has caught them up, and the chord of my life is being twisted, and I cannot wrench it free and untwine it again—I can’t. I am not strong enough. Besides, you have twisted another thread far and tight into your chord; could you get free?”
“Tell me what to do—yes, if you tell me.”
“I can’t tell you—so let me go.”
“No, Lettie,” he pleaded, with terror and humility. “No, Lettie; don’t go. What should I do with my life? Nobody would love you like I do—and what should I do with my love for you?—hate it and fear it, because it’s too much for me?”
She turned and kissed him gratefully. He then took her in a long, passionate embrace, mouth to mouth. In the end it had so wearied her, that she could only wait in his arms till he was too tired to hold her. He was trembling already.
“Poor Meg!” she murmured to herself dully, her sensations having become vague.
He winced, and the pressure of his arms slackened. She loosened his hands, and rose half dazed from her seat by him. She left him, while he sat dejected, raising no protest.
When I went out to look for them, when tea had already been waiting on the table half an hour or more, I found him leaning against the gatepost at
