The little colonies of lily-of-the-valley came into delicate bloom
under the fringing shrubbery; golden bell flower, pink and vermilion
cydonia, roses, all bloomed and had their day; lilac bushes were
weighted with their heavy, dewy clusters; the sweet-brier's green
tracery grew into tender leaf and its matchless perfume became
apparent when the sun fell hot.

In the warm air there seemed to brood the exquisite hesitation of
happy suspense,--a delicious and breathless sense of waiting for
something still more wonderful to come.

And when Athalie felt it stealing over her she looked at Clive and
knew that he also felt it. Then her slim hand would steal into his and
nestle there, content, fearless, blissfully confident of what was to
be.

But it was subtly otherwise with Clive. Once or twice she felt his
hand tremble slightly as though a slight shiver had passed over him;
and when again she noticed it she asked him why.

"Nothing," he said in a strained voice; "I am very, very happy."

"I know it.... There is no fear mingling with your happiness; is
there, Clive?"

But before he replied she knew that it was so.

"Dearest," she murmured, "dearest! You must not be afraid for me."

And suddenly the long pent fears strangled him; he could not speak;
and she felt his lips, hot and tremulous against her hand.

"My heart!" she whispered, "all will go well. There is absolutely no
reason for you to be afraid."