eyes. Amherst had never seen her thus, and he watched her with the sense of relaxation which the contact of limpid gaiety brings to a mind obscured by failure and self-distrust. The world was not so dark a place after all, if such springs of merriment could well up in a heart as sensitive as hers to the burden and toil of existence.
“Isn’t it strange," she went on with a sudden drop to gravity, “that the bird whose wings carry him farthest and show him the most wonderful things, is the one who always comes back to the eaves, and is happiest in the thick of everyday life?”
Her eyes met Amherst’s. “It seems to me,” he said, “that you’re like that yourself—loving long flights, yet happiest in the thick of life.”
She raised her dark brows laughingly. “So I imagine—but then you see I’ve never had the long flight!”
Amherst smiled. “Ah, there it is—one never knows—one never says, This is the moment! because, however good it is, it always seems the door to a better one beyond. Faust never said it till the end, when he’d nothing left of all he began by thinking worth while; and then, with what a difference it was said!”
She pondered. “Yes—but it was the best, after all—the moment in which he had nothing left.…”
“Oh,” Cicely broke in suddenly, “do look at the
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