She
stirred slightly, opened her eyes and smiled, then lifted her hands and
clasped them around his neck.
"It'll be easier to carry me that way," she murmured drowsily.
"Austin--you're awfully good to me."
Her eyes closed again. A sheet of white fire, like that of which he had
been conscious on the afternoon when they straightened out the yard
together, only a thousand times more powerful, seemed to envelop him
again. He looked down at the lovely, sleeping face, at the dark lashes
curling over the white cheeks and the red, sweet lips. If he kissed her,
what harm would be done--she would never even know--
Then he flung back his head. Sylvia was as far above him as those pale
stars of the early dawn. It was clear to him that no one must ever guess
how dearly he loved her; but he knew that it was far, far more essential
that he, in his unworthiness, should not profane his own ideal. She was
not for his touch, scarcely for his thoughts. The kiss which did not
reach her lips burned into his soul instead, and cleansed it with its
healing flame.
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