BOOK XII. THE TREADMILL
They sat in the little cabin, where she had been reading some lines from the poem again—
“O easy access to the hearer’s grace
When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine!”
“Ah, yes!” he said. “But our lot was cast in a different time.”
She put her hand upon his. “Even so,” she said; and then turned the page, and read once more—
“What though the music of thy rustic flute
Kept not for long its happy, country tone;
Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan,
Which task’d thy pipe too sore, and tired thy
throat—
It failed, and thou wast mute!
Yet hadst thou always visions of our light!”
Section 1. The mise-en-scéne of their new adventure in domesticity was a tent eighteen feet by twelve; but as the side-walls were low,
