tenderly at the little home shining amid the roses, caught their faint perfume and faltered:
"Let's go back a minute—I want to see his room, and kiss Henry's picture again."
"No, we are going to him now—I hear him calling us in the mists above the cliff," said the girl—"come, we must hurry. We might go mad and fail!"
Down the dim cathedral aisles of the woods, hallowed by tender memories, through which the poet lover and father had taught them to walk with reverent feet and without fear, they fled to the old meeting-place of Love.
On the brink of the precipice, the mother trembled, paused, drew back and gasped:
"Are you not afraid, my dear?"
"No; death is sweet, now," said the girl. "I fear only the pity of those we love."
"Is there no other way? We might go among strangers," pleaded the mother.
"We could not escape ourselves! The thought of life is torture. Only those who hate me could wish that I live. The grave will be soft and cool, the light of day a burning shame."
"Come back to the seat a moment—let me tell you my love again," urged the mother. "Life still is dear while I hold your hand."
As they sat in brooding anguish, floating up from the river valley came the music of a banjo in a negro cabin, mingled with vulgar shout and song and dance. A verse of the ribald senseless lay of the player echoed above the banjo's pert refrain:
