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A Puritan Bohemia
191
half-portrait seemed unpleasantly appropriate in the light of his present surroundings.
The sun went slowly down. Shadows crept across the lawn. From marshy places near, the notes of hylas came to them, cool and sweet. The charms of love and spring and twilight blended.
In the gathering darkness Howard took the girl's soft hand and placed it against his forehead.
"It is hard to believe," he said, "in sympathy so deep. You are more real to me than myself, the meaning of myself."
The white fingers caressed his hair. As he spoke again, the words had a familiar sound. Had he read them somewhere? It did not matter. He was deeply in earnest.
"You hold my whole life in the hollow of that hand."
THE END
