the death of “mrs. vanton”—no one ever was heartless enough to call her anything else—left entirely to guy the moderate fortune which had been captain vanton’s. and now he had a use for it.

mermaid and her husband travelled about, crossing the atlantic and visiting paris, where guy showed his wife some scenes of his boyhood. they rambled through little towns. and in these the streets seemed always to be crowded with youngsters at play.

mermaid had hold of guy’s arm. he felt her red-gold hair brush his cheek.

“children!” he said, and fell silent. “we, too, were children once. i think we will always remain children, you and i. the spirit does not die, but the body must be renewed. it is ours to renew it.”

they walked on together, and everywhere the children looked up from the excitement and laughter of their games to glance at them interestedly or disinterestedly, curiously or with indifference, and here and there they caught a smile, fleeting and momentary, fashioned expressly for them, inviting them to share the instant’s joy. as they walked they drew closer together. they were no longer blissfully happy, moving in a thoughtless perfection of shared and reciprocated love. they were[225] intelligently happy, perceptively, hopefully happy. to the delight of the moment and of each other was added the delight of anticipation. they walked on and looked down the long vista of the future.

their love had now a meaning and a purpose for both of them that transcended the dear comradeship and pleasure of the present. it was still love, but it was not the same love; it had in it a sense of obligation, an instinct of fidelity, a passion of service, an element of devotion. in a little village church they knelt together, reverently, before the altar, and the same prayer was in both their hearts.