much to say—nothing that was new—the old, old story that has been told since the days when Adam, waking, found that a new joy had entered into his life. For those whose feet have wandered in Eden, there is no need to speak; for those who are yet to tread the hallowed ground, there is no need either—for in the fulness of time their knowledge will come.
It was not till we had sat some time that we exchanged any sweet words—they were sweet, although to any one but ourselves they would have seemed the most absurd and soulless commonplaces.
We spoke, and that was all. It is of the nature of love that it can from airy nothings win its own celestial food!
Presently I said—and I pledge my word that this was the first speech that either of us had made, beyond the weather and the view, and such lighter topics:—
"Won't you tell me your name? I have so longed to know it, all these weary days."
"Norah—Norah Joyce! I thought you knew."
This was said with a shy lifting of the eyelashes, which were as suddenly and as shyly dropped again.
"Norah!" As I spoke the word—and my whole soul was in its speaking—the happy blush overspread her face again. "Norah! What a sweet name! Norah! No, I did not know it; if I had known it, when I missed you from the hill-top at Knocknacar, I should have sought you here."
Somehow her next remark seemed to chill me:—
