And it was spring-time; these prisoners of frost were beautifully

sensitive. They, too, with the lake and the aspens and the earth, the

seeds and the beasts, had suffered the season of interment. In such

fashion Nature makes possible the fresh undertakings of last summer's

reckless prodigals; she drives them into her mock tomb and freezes

their hearts--it is a little rest of death--so that they wake like

turbulent bacchantes drunk with sleep and with forgetfulness. Love,

spring says, is an eternal fact, welcome its new manifestations.

Remating bluebirds built their nests near Joan's window; they were not

troubled by sad recollections of last year's nests nor the young birds

that flew away. It was another life, a resurrection. If they remembered

at all, they remembered only the impulses of pleasure; they had

somewhere before learned how to love, how to build; the past summers

had given practice to their singing little throats and to their rapid

wings. No ghosts forbade happiness and no God--man-voiced--saying,

because he knew the ugly human aftermaths, hard sayings of "Be ye

perfect."

What counsel was theirs for Joan and what had her human mentor taught

her? He had taught her in one form or another the beauty of passion and

its eternal sinlessness, for that was his sincere belief. By music he

had taught her, by musical speech, by the preaching of heathen sage and

the wit of modern arguers. He had given her all the moral schooling she

had ever had and its golden rule was, "Be ye beautiful and generous."

Joan was both beautiful and made for giving, "free-hearted" as she

might herself have said, Friday's child as the old rhyme has it,--and

to cry out to her with love, saying, "I want you, Joan," was just,

sooner or later, to see her turn and bend her head and hold out her

arms. Prosper had the reward of patience; his wild leopardess was tamed

to his hand and her sweetness made him tender and very merciful.

Their gay, little house stood open all day while they explored the

mountains and plunged into the lake, choosing the hot hour of noon.

Joan made herself mistress of the house and did her woman's work at

last of tidying and beautifying and decking corners with gorgeous

branches of blossoms while Prosper worked at his desk. He was happy;

the reality of Joan's presence had laid his ghost just as the reality

of his had laid hers. His work went on magically and added the glow of

successful creation to the glow of satisfied desire. And his sin of

deceit troubled him very little, for he had worked out that problem

and had decided that Pierre, dead or alive, was unworthy of this mate.




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