"My soul, my soul!" he said tenderly, his heart wrung with emotion. "What
is it, sweetheart--why have you these tears? Oh! what have I
done--darling, my own?"
"I am weary," she said, and fell to weeping softly, and refused to be
comforted.
Paul's distress was intense--what could have happened? What terrible thing
had he done? What sorrow had fallen upon his beloved while he selfishly
slept? But all she would say was that she was weary, while she clung to
him in a storm of passion, as if some one threatened to take her out of
his arms. Then she left him abruptly and went off to dress.
But later, at dinner, it seemed as if a new and more radiant light than
ever glowed on her face. She was gay and caressing, telling him merry
tales of Paris and its plays. It was as if she meant to efface all
suggestion of sorrow or pain--and gradually the impression wore off in
Paul's mind, and ere it came to their sipping the golden wine, all was
brightness and peace.
"See," she said, looking from the window just before they retired to rest,
"the sky has stopped crying, and there are our stars, sweetheart, come out
to wish us good-night. Ah! for us tomorrow once more will be a glorious
day."
"My Queen," said Paul; "rain or fine, all days are glorious to me, so long
as I have you to clasp in my arms.
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