“As I gazed the mediaeval bosses of the tabernacle ofOrcagna seemed to melt and flow into their primal forms sothat the folded lotus of the Nile and the Greek acanthus werebraided with the runic knots and fish-tailed monsters of theNorth， and all the plastic terror and beauty born of man’shand from the Ganges to the Baltic quivered and mingled inOrcagna’s apotheosis of Mary. And so the river bore me on，past the alien face of antique civilizations and the familiarwonders of Greece， till I swam upon the fiercely rushing tideof the Middle Ages， with its swirling eddies of passion， itsheaven-reflecting pools of poetry and art； I heard the rhythmicblow of the craftsmen’s hammers in the goldsmiths’ workshopsand on the walls of churches， the party-cries of armed factionsin the narrow streets， the organ-roll of Dante’s verse， thecrackle of the fagots around Arnold of Brescia， the twitter ofthe swallows to which St. Francis preached， the laughter of theladies listening on the hillside to the quips of the Decameron，while plague-struck Florence howled beneath them—all thisand much more I heard， joined in strange unison with voicesearlier and more remote， fierce， passionate， or tender， yetsubdued to such awful harmony that I thought of the songthat the morning stars sang together and felt as though itwere sounding in my ears. My heart beat to suffocation， thetears burned my lids， the joy， the mystery of it seemed toointolerable to be borne. I could not understand even then thewords of the song； but I knew that if there had been someoneat my side who could have heard it with me， we might havefound the key to it together.
“I turned to my husband， who was sitting beside me in anattitude of patient dejection， gazing into the bottom of his hat；but at that moment he rose， and stretching his stiffened legs，said， mildly： ‘Hadn’t we better be going？ There doesn’t seemto be much to see here， and you know the table d’hote dinneris at half-past six o’clock.”
Her recital ended， there was an interval of silence； then theSpirit of Life said： “There is a compensation in store for suchneeds as you have expressed.”
“Oh， then you DO understand？” she exclaimed. “Tell mewhat compensation， I entreat you！”
“It is ordained，” the Spirit answered， “that every soul whichseeks in vain on earth for a kindred soul to whom it can laybare its inmost being shall find that soul here and be united toit for eternity.”
A glad cry broke from her lips. “Ah， shall I find him at last？”
she cried， exultant.
“He is here，” said the Spirit of Life.
She looked up and saw that a man stood near whose soul （forin that unwonted light she seemed to see his soul more clearlythan his face） drew her toward him with an invincible force.
“Are you really he？” she murmured.
“I am he，” he answered.
She laid her hand in his and drew him toward the parapetwhich overhung the valley.
“Shall we go down together，” she asked him， “into thatmarvellous country； shall we see it together， as if with the selfsameeyes， and tell each other in the same words all that wethink and feel？”
“So，” he replied， “have I hoped and dreamed.”
“What？” she asked， with rising joy. “Then you， too， havelooked for me？”
“All my life.”
“How wonderful！ And did you never， never find anyone inthe other world who understood you？”
“Not wholly—not as you and I understand each other.”
“Then you feel it， too？ Oh， I am happy，” she sighed.
They stood， hand in hand， looking down over the parapetupon the shimmering landscape which stretched forth beneaththem into sapphirine space， and the Spirit of Life， who keptwatch near the threshold， heard now and then a floatingfragment of their talk blown backward like the stray swallowswhich the wind sometimes separates from their migratorytribe.
“Did you never feel at sunset—”
“Ah， yes； but I never heard anyone else say so. Did you？”
“Do you remember that line in the third canto of the‘Inferno？’”
“Ah， that line—my favorite always. Is it possible—”
“You know the stooping Victory in the frieze of the NikeApteros？”
“You mean the one who is tying her sandal？ Then you havenoticed， too， that all Botticelli and Mantegna are dormant inthose flying folds of her drapery？”
“After a storm in autumn have you never seen—”
“Yes， it is curious how certain flowers suggest certainpainters—the perfume of the incarnation， Leonardo； that of therose， Titian； the tuberose， Crivelli—”
“I never supposed that anyone else had noticed it.”
“Have you never thought—”
“Oh， yes， often and often； but I never dreamed that anyoneelse had.”
“But surely you must have felt—”
“Oh， yes， yes； and you， too—”
“How beautiful！ How strange—”
Their voices rose and fell， like the murmur of two fountainsanswering each other across a garden full of flowers. At length，with a certain tender impatience， he turned to her and said：
“Love， why should we linger here？ All eternity lies before us.
Let us go down into that beautiful country together and make ahome for ourselves on some blue hill above the shining river.”
As he spoke， the hand she had forgotten in his was suddenlywithdrawn， and he felt that a cloud was passing over theradiance of her soul.
“A home，” she repeated， slowly， “a home for you and me tolive in for all eternity？”
“Why not， love？ Am I not the soul that yours has sought？”
“Y—yes—yes， I know—but， don’t you see， home would notbe like home to me， unless—”
“Unless？” he wonderingly repeated.
She did not answer， but she thought to herself， with animpulse of whimsical inconsistency， “Unless you slammed thedoor and wore creaking boots.”
But he had recovered his hold upon her hand， and byimperceptible degrees was leading her toward the shining stepswhich descended to the valley.