The tearing open of his heart had left him weakened with pain. Perhaps
that was why he was so very tired, and perhaps it was because he was so
tired that this thought of growing old came back to him. It seemed to him
now, leaning back in his chair and filled with the things of which he had
spoken, that almost as great as a living presence with which to share the
years, would be that thing of growing old with a beautiful memory. It
would be a supreme thing to have a hand in your hand, a face against your
face, a heart against your heart as you stepped on into the years; but if
that could not be, and perfection is not given freely in this life,
surely it would keep the note of cheer in one's voice, the kindly
gleam in one's eye, to bring with one into old age the memory of a
perfect love. It would be lonely then when one sat in the twilight and
dreamed--but what another loneliness! If instead of holding one's self
away from one's own heart, one could turn to it with: "She loved me like
that.
Pages:
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444