"
"Don't!" he pleaded,--"not altogether, at any rate. Life is so short,
so pitifully incomplete. We live through so many epochs and each epoch
has its own personality. It was not I who married Ellen. It was
Burton, the auctioneer's clerk. I cannot carry the burden of that
fellow's asinine mistakes upon my shoulders forever."
"I am afraid," she murmured, "that however clever the Mr. Burton of
to-day may be, he will never be able to rid himself altogether of his
predecessor's burdens."
They were leaning over the gate, looking into the deserted hayfield.
The quiet of evening had stolen down upon them. He drew a little nearer
to her.
"Dear," he whispered, "there isn't really any Ellen, there isn't really
any woman in the world of my thoughts, the world in which I live, save
you."
She was almost in his arms. She did not resist but she looked a little
pitifully into his face. "You will not--please!" she begged.
Once more the music passed away into the clouds. It was the gate into
Paradise over which he had leaned, but the gate was locked, and as he
stood there it seemed to grow higher and higher, until he could not even
see over the top. Almost roughly he turned away.
"Quite right," he muttered.
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