It was an old, old story to him; he knew each chapter and verse to
weariness, though there still was no other story that he still read as
often. But to her it was so new.
To him it was a long beaten track; he knew every turn of it; he
recognized every wayside blossom; he had passed over a thousand times
each tremulous bridge; he knew so well beforehand where each shadow would
fall, and where each fresh bud would blossom, and where each harvest
would be reaped.
But to her it was so new.
She followed him as a blind child a man that guides her through a garden
and reads her a wonder tale.
He was good to her, that was all she knew. When he touched her ever so
lightly she felt a happiness so perfect, and yet so unintelligible, that
she could have wished to die in it.
And in her humility and her ignorance she wondered always how he--so
great, so wise, so beautiful--could have thought it ever worth his while
to leave the paradise of Rubes' land to wait with her under her little
rush-thatched roof, and bring her here to see the green leaves and the
living things of the forest.
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