did. Why should the man who has lived in sin all his life be cleansed by

crying to Christ on his death-bed--and permitted to enter into just such joys as the good man has earned by a life of noble deeds? I do not believe in a creed like that."

Dolores put a soft hand over his mouth.

"Let us not talk religion," she said. "I fear you are a sad heretic. Yet I agree with you that every violated principle counts against us. But we need not fear death on that account, Percy. I am living up to my highest convictions of right: are not you?"

Again Percy hesitated. Then he laid his hand on her golden head, and looked gravely in her sweet eyes, as he answered:

"Sometimes, Dolores, I do not feel that I am. Sometimes the fears that you may one day repent our independent course of action, together with the fact that we are obliged to hide so much of our companionship from the world, weighs upon me like a burden."

She caught his hand and held it against her cheek.

"It must not, it must not!" she cried. "I shall never repent these perfect days with you--never. We have violated no principles. All laws are made by man, and every nation has its own peculiar ideas and rules upon this subject. I believe God blesses and approves of our companionship. You tell me that your life is better for it, and I know I am ten-fold more unselfish, and womanly, and sympathetic than ever before. Surely, we have been a benefit and strength to each other. As for secrecy, I am ready, and willing to meet the world at any time. Percy,--proudly, as George Eliot met it. I am not ashamed of my love for you, or my devotion to you. I have never asked for secrecy."

Percy flushed slightly.

"I know you have not," he answered. "But the world condemns, without trial, who ever dares defy its opinions. Were we to publicly declare our ideas, we should be subjected to a thousand annoyances which we escape now. Cranks and villains would make no distinction between our sweet comradeship and their own immoral lives, while Society would exile us wholly, and people in general would cry us down. For your sake, as well as for my own social and business interests, it seems wiser to keep our pleasant seclusion."

"Yet Society is full of disgraceful intrigue--the very best of it," cried Dolores, with scorn. "The very people who would condemn us for our ideas, are hiding shameful infidelities in their own lives."

"Some of them," Percy admitted, "not all. Many a man among my acquaintances, who would mark my name off his visiting list, if we were to make our beliefs public, is himself similarly situated, save that he is also deceiving a wife; while I wrong no third party. But in the eyes of men, you know, the sin consists in being found out."

"Thank heaven, I am not in the position of one of those deceived wives!" cried Dolores, fervently. "At the first moment you tire of me, or that your heart strays away from me, you are free to go, without hesitating, and without legal proceedings. I should not want you to remain after you ceased to love me. You know my maxim is, 'those who love are wed, and those who no longer love are no longer wed.'"

Dolores really believed what she said. It is so easy to be liberal and broad in our theories, before our weak, human hearts are put upon the rack.

Percy, who enjoyed the sensation of liberty which her words gave him, felt also moved by an affectionate admiration for the lovely speaker. He reached out his arms and drew her fair head against his heart.

"I shall never tire of you, my royal lady!" he said, kissing her brow and cheek. "You combine all the qualities necessary to keep me true. You are a bright mental companion, a beautiful picture to my eye, and a fond heart-friend. And then you never hamper my liberty, or fret me by asking where I have been, or whither I am going, or why I have not come home sooner, as so many wives do. I appreciate your delightful good sense, when I see how some of my friends are martyrs to the whims of exacting women."

"It seems to me," Dolores replied, "that a woman makes a great mistake, who expects a man to give up all his old friends, and pleasures, and devote every moment of his life to her: and to account to her for every hour passed out of her presence. It must be terribly galling to a man who has been accustomed to his liberty. I think men are like some spirited horses--the tighter you draw the rein, the more reckless their pace: while with an easy rein they jog along very sedately. But speaking of our happiness, dear, I read a little poem the other day in an old book, which reminded me of our love. May I read it to you?"

Percy looked at his watch:

"Yes, if it is not very long:" he said. "We must be off for our drive in half an hour."

Dolores ran and brought an old magazine from her ebony desk, and, resuming her place at Percy's knees, read the poem.

"The name of the author is not given," she said; "but it seemed to me whoever wrote it, had loved as we love, Percy--with every faculty of his being. It is called

THREE-FOLD.

Somewhere I've read a thoughtful mind's reflection: "All perfect things are three-fold:" and I know Our love has this rare symbol of perfection: The brain's response, the warm blood's rapturous glow, The soul's sweet language, silent and unspoken. All these unite us, with a deathless tie. For when our frail, clay tenement is broken, Our spirits will be lovers still, on high.

My dearest wish, you speak before I word it. You understand the workings of my heart. My soul's thought, breathed where only God has heard it, You fathom with your strange divining art. And like a fire, that cheers, and lights, and blesses, And floods a mansion full of happy heat, So does the subtle warmth of your caresses, Pervade me with a rapture, keen as sweet.

And so sometimes, as you and I together Exult in all dear love's three-fold delights, I cannot help but vaguely wonder whether When our freed souls, attain their spirit heights, E'en if we reach that upper realm where God is, And find the tales of heavenly glory true, I wonder if we shall not miss our bodies, And long, at times, for hours on earth we knew.

As now, we sometimes pray to leave our prison And soar beyond all physical demands, So may we not sigh, when we have arisen, For just one old-time touch of lips and hands? I know, dear heart, a thought like this seems daring Concerning God's vast Government above, Yet, even _There_, I shrink from wholly sparing One element, from this, our Three-fold Love."

"What a very queer idea!" commented Percy, with a slight frown, as Dolores finished reading the poem. "It has the merit of being original, at least, but I cannot say that I like it."

"Still it expresses a great deal: the person who composed it must have comprehended every phase of love. Do you not think so?"

"It is quite as likely that the author had never loved at all, save in imagination. And I do not like the idea of ever longing for my body after I once get through with its troublesome demands. It is too material."

Dolores looked wonderingly at Percy.

"What a strange man you are!" she said. "After all, I do not think I fully understand you. Sometimes you shock me with your lack of orthodoxy, and again I feel as if your spiritual nature was far beyond my own in its development. You are a paradox, _mon ami_. But there is the carriage, and I must put on my hat and gloves."