ever kill what has been between us. Nor can anything spoil it. Love is a strange thing, and I don't pretend to understand it at all; I don't understand, for instance, why two people made for each other, as we are, should not have been allowed to meet before. That seems to me cruel. And yet, in this short time, we have experienced every emotion possible to two people in love—there's nothing beautiful, nothing intimate, nothing comical, nothing gay and nothing sad, that we have not known during the two months that we have been together. If we had been married and domestic for twenty years, we could not say more—perhaps we could not say as much. So let's remember that to-night, when we are going to be separated for the first time."
"Oh, Lina, Lina," he cried, clinging to her, kissing her lips, her eyes, her hair, her throat, "I can bear anything, I think, but the way you insist on speaking of us— in the past tense, as though we were both of us already dead and forgotten! Do you realize that's what you are doing? You're putting everything behind you, as though our love were finished, and that you mustn't do, or I think we shall both go mad. After all, what's a fortnight? Nothing; absolutely nothing at all. . . . And yet we're talking, both of us, as though it were for all eternity, as though this parting were the fearful one we talked of in the forest, a parting for good and all! As though we were never going to see each other again. As though all our joy were finished and done with, when so much of it is still to come."
"I can't help it," she cried, "when it's a question of losing you, even for a few days, I can't be brave. You must be brave for both of us."
"Will you write to me, by beloved?"
"You know I will. But that's something I've never learned—to write letters. You'11 find mine very cold and