CHAPTERXI
ThedayswhenMiltounwasfirstallowedoutofbedwereatimeofmingledjoyandsorrowtoherwhohadnursedhim。Toseehimsittingup,amazedathisownweakness,washappiness,yettothinkthathewouldbenomorewhollydependent,nomorethatsacredthing,ahelplesscreature,broughtherthesadnessofamotherwhosechildnolongerneedsher。Witheveryhourhewouldnowgetfartherfromher,backintothefastnessesofhisownspirit。Witheveryhourshewouldbelesshisnurseandcomforter,morethewomanheloved。Andthoughthatthoughtshoneoutintheobscurefuturelikeaglamorousflower,itbroughttoomuchwistfuluncertaintytothepresent。Shewasverytired,too,nowthatallexcitementwasover——sotiredthatshehardlyknewwhatshedidorwhereshemoved。Butasmilehadbecomesofaithfultohereyesthatitclungthereabovetheshadowsoffatigue,andkepttakingherlipsprisoner。
Betweenthetwobronzebustsshehadplacedabowlofliliesofthevalley;andeveryfreenicheinthatroomofbookshadalittlevaseofrosestowelcomeMiltoun\'sreturn。
Hewaslyingbackinhisbigleatherchair,wrappedinaTurkishgownofLordValleys\'——onwhichBarbarahadlaidhands,havingfailedtofindanythingresemblingadressing—gownamongstherbrother\'saustereclothing。Theperfumeoflilieshadovercomethescentofbooks,andabee,dusky,adventurer,filledtheroomwithhispleasanthumming。
Theydidnotspeak,butsmiledfaintly,lookingatoneanother。Inthisstillmoment,beforepassionhadreturnedtoclaimitsown,theirspiritspassedthroughthesleepyair,andbecameentwined,sothatneithercouldwithdrawthatsoft,slow,encounteringglance。Inmutualcontentment,eachtoeach,closeasmusictothestringsofaviolin,theirspiritsclung——solost,theoneintheother,thatneitherforthatbrieftimeseemedtoknowwhichwasself。