But when the winter was most gone,he made a little cradle of hard wood,in which she placed pillows of down,and over which she hung linen curtains embroidered by her hand.
In the long evenings,by the flicker of the fire,they sat together,cheek to cheek,and looked at this little bed,singing low songs together.
"This happiness is terrible,my John,"
she said to him one night,--a wondrous night,when the eastern wind had flung the tassels out on all the budding trees of spring,and the air was throbbing with awakening life,and balmy puffs of breeze,and odors of the earth."And we are grow-ing young.Do you not think that we are very young and strong?"He kissed her on the lips."I know that you are beautiful,"he said.
"Oh,we have lived at Nature's heart,you see,my love.The cattle and the fowls,the honey and the wheat,the cot --the cradle,John,and you and me!These things make happiness.They are nature.
But then,you cannot understand.You have never known the artificial --""And you,Elizabeth?""John,if you wish,you shall hear all Ihave to tell.'Tis a long,long,weary tale.
Will you hear it now?Believe me,it will make us sad."She grasped his arm till he shrank with pain.
"Tell what you will and when you will,Elizabeth.Perhaps,some day --when --"he pointed to the little crib.
"As you say."And so it dropped.
There came a day when Hartington,sitting upon the portico,where perfumes of the budding clover came to him,hated the humming of the happy bees,hated the rust-ling of the trees,hated the sight of earth.
"The child is dead,"the nurse had said,"as for your wife,perhaps --"but that was all.Finally he heard the nurse's step upon the floor.