A month had flown to the bourne whence no summer charms return.
August had laid a calming hand on all the gray Atlantic, dimpling its surface with invitations to the color and glory of the sky. The world turned almost visibly here, in this vast expanse of waters, bringing its meed of joys and sorrows to the restless human creatures on its bosom.
Jerold and Dorothy, alone at last, even among so many pa.s.sengers, were four days deep in their honeymoon, with all the delights of Europe looming just ahead.
There was nothing left undone in the case of Hardy. Scott had been paid his insurance; the Robinsons had fled; Foster Durgin and his wife were united by a bond of work and happiness; the house in Ninety-third Street was rented, and Fairfax was almost comfortable at a "sanatorium"
where his wife came frequently to see him.
With their arms interlocked, Dorothy and Jerold watched the sun go down, from the taffrail of the mighty ocean liner.
When the moon rose, two hours later, they were still on deck, alone.
And when they came to a shadow, built for two, they paused in their perfect understanding. She put her arms about his neck and gave him a kiss upon the lips. His arms were both about her, folding her close to his breast.
"It's such a rest to love you all I please," she whispered. "It was very, very hard, even from the first, to keep it from telling itself."
Such is the love that glorifies the world.
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