It blew down the grooves of time. It brought a story of the
passing hours. It breathed low of fighting men and praying women.
It sang clearly the song of love. That ever was the burden of its
tidings--youth in the shady woods, waders through the wet
meadows, boy and girl at the hedgerow stile, bathers in the
booming surf, sweet, idle hours on grassy, windy hills, long
strolls down moonlit lanes--everywhere in far-off lands, fingers
locked and bursting hearts and longing lips--from all the world
tidings of unquenchable love.
Often, in these hours of dreams he watched the girl, and asked
himself of what was she dreaming? For the changing light of the
valley reflected its gleam and its color and its meaning in the
changing light of her eyes. He saw in them infinitely more than
he saw in his dreams. He saw thought and soul and nature--strong
vision of life. All tidings the west wind blew from distance and
age he found deep in those dark-blue depths, and found them
mysteries solved. Under their wistful shadow he softened, and in
the softening felt himself grow a sadder, a wiser, and a better
man.
While the west wind blew its tidings, filling his heart full,
teaching him a man's part, the days passed, the purple clouds
changed to white, and the storms were over for that summer.
"I must go now," he said.
"When?" she asked.
"At once--to-night."
"I'm glad the time has come.
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