They
spoke of how they had never been separated since their marriage, of how
strange it would seem to be apart, but always of how beautiful to be
together again. There was such a sweetness, tenderness, in the sadness
which hung about their parting. They made the most of their pain, as is
the way of lovers, for it drew them together in a new way, and each kiss,
each smallest caress, had a new and tender significance.
"You'll be back in time for your birthday, Ernestine?"
"Oh, yes; I'm only going to stay a week."
"I thought you said, perhaps two?"
"Did I? Well I've decided one will be enough."
"Ernestine, what have you been painting? Tell me, dear. That's one thing
I'm a little disappointed in. I do so want to keep close to your work."
"Well, Karl," after a silence, "that picture I have been working on this
winter is hard to tell about because it is in a field all new to me. It
is a picture which emphasises, or tries to, what love means to the
world,--a picture which is the outgrowth of our love.
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