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He sat down
by Lorimer, and, taking his hand, kissed it deferentially.
"I followed you. I saw you go away to grieve alone. I came to grieve
also!" he said with a patient gentleness.
Lorimer laughed languidly. "By Jove, Sigurd, you're too clever for your
age! Think I came away to grieve, eh? Not so, my boy--came away to
smoke! There's a come-down for you! I never grieve--don't know how to do
it. What _is_ grief?"
"To love!" answered Sigurd promptly. "To see a beautiful elf with golden
wings come fluttering, fluttering gently down from the sky,--you open
your arms to catch her--so! . . . and just as you think you have her, she
leans only a little bit on one side, and falls, not into your
heart--no!--into the heart of some one else! That is grief, because,
when she has gone, no more elves come down from the sky,--for you, at
any rate,--good things may come for others,--but for _you_ the heavens
are empty!"
Lorimer was silent, looking at the speaker curiously.
"How do you get all this nonsense into your head, eh?" he inquired
kindly.


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