THE RIVER is grey and the air dazed with blown sand. On a morning of dark disquiet, when the birds are mute and their nests shake in the gust, I sit alone and ask myself, 'Where is she?' The days have flown wherein we sat too near each other; we laughed and jested, and the awe of love's majesty found no words at our meetings. I made myself small, and she trifled away every moment with pelting talk. To-day I wish in vain that she were by me, in the gloom of the coming storm, to sit in the soul's solitude.