"Kiss me," she says; and without speaking we stammer, and murmur, and laugh.
* * * * * * Together we are looking at a little square piece of paper.

I found it on the seat which the rose-tree overhangs on the edge of the downward lane.

Carefully folded, it had a forgotten look, and it was waiting there, detained for a moment by its timorous weight.

A few lines of careful writing cover it.

We read it: "I do not know how speaks the pious heart; nothing I know; th' enraptured martyr I.