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She was still humming, low-voiced, and as she sat she began to sing—not strongly, but hushed, as though for a drowsy ear—with her face lifted and her dreamy eyes upon the sea margin.

“Purple flower and soaring lark,

Throbbing song and story bold,

All must pass into the dark,

Die and mingle with the mold.

Ah, but still your face I see!

Bend and clasp me; Sweet, kiss me!”

It was Daunt’s song, the one he most loved to hear her sing. But to-day it had a new, rich meaning. She stretched her hands on either side, grasping the seat, and sang on to the bending boughs, rubbing slowly against the weather-stained beam arms above her head:

“Dear, to-day shall never rust!

What, are we to be o’erwise?

All that doth not smell of dust

Lieth in your lips and eyes.

So, while loving yet may be,

Bend and fold me; Sweet, kiss me!”

The shade grew darker as she sat. It deepened the brown of her eyes and the sea-bloom in her cheeks, and the loitering lilac of the west touched the coils of her hair, as they lay against the gray board, blotting with their living bronze the half-effaced, forgotten inscription: