Henry Brocken. Walter de la Mare

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      "Boys perhaps," cried Julia softly, "but men soon forget."

      "Youth never," I replied.

      "Why 'Youth'?" said Dianeme. "Herrick was not always young."

      "Ay, but all men once were young, please God," I said, "and youth is the only 'once' that's worth remembrance. Youth with the heart of youth adores you, ladies; because, when dreams come thick upon them, they catch your flying laughter in the woods. When the sun is sunk, and the stars kindle in the sky, then your eyes haunt the twilight. You come in dreams, and mock the waking. You the mystery; you the bravery and danger; you the long-sought; you the never-won; memories, hopes, songs ere the earth is mute. You will always be loved, believe me, O bright ladies, till youth fades, turns, and loves no more." And I gazed amazed on cherries of such potency as these.

      "But once, sir," said Julia timidly, "we were not only loved but told we were loved."

      "Where is the pleasure else?" cried Dianeme.

      "Besides," said Electra, "Anthea says if we might but find where Styx flows one draught—my mere palmful—would be sweeter than all the poetry ever writ, save some."

      "It is idle," cried Dianeme; "Herrick himself admired us most on paper."

      "And ink makes a cross even of a kiss, that is very well known," said Julia.

      "Ah!" said I, "all men have eyes; few see. Most men have tongues: there is but one Robin Herrick."

      "I will tell you a secret," said Dianeme.

      And as if a bird of the air had carried her voice, it seemed a hush fell on sky and greenery.

      "We are but fairy-money all," she said, "an envy to see. Take us!—'tis all dry leaves in the hand. Herrick stole the honey, and the bees he killed. Blow never so softly on the tinder, it flames—and dies."

      "I heard once," said Electra, with but a thought of pride, "that had I lived a little, little earlier, I might have been the Duchess of Malfi."

      "I too, Flatterer," cried Julia, "I too—Desdemona slain by a blackamoor. To some it is the cold hills and the valleys 'green and sad,' and the sea-birds' wailing," she continued in a low, strange voice, "and to some the glens of heather, and the mountain-brooks, and the rowans. But, come to an end, what are we all? This man's eyes will tell ye! I would give white and red, nectar and snow and roses, and all the similes that ever were for—"

      "For what?" said I.

      "I think, for Robin Herrick," she said.

      It was a lamentable confession, for that said, gravity fled away; and Electra fetched out a lute from a low cupboard in the arbour, and while she played Julia sang to a sober little melody I seemed to know of old:

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