"I share it with you;" and she smiled through her tears and a glowing blush brightened upon her face.

She stood before him, erect and beautiful.
Through Wogan's mind there tripped a procession of delicate ladies who would swoon gracefully at the sight of a pricked finger.
"That's John Sobieski speaking," he exclaimed, and with an emphasis of despair, "Poland's King! But I was mad! Indeed, I blame myself." "Blame!" she cried passionately, her whole nature rising in revolt against the word.

"Are we to blame?
We are man and woman.

Who shall cast the stone?
Are you to blame for that you love me?
Who shall blame you?
Not I, who thank you from my heart.

Am I to blame?
What have we hearts for, then, if not to love?
I have a thought--it may be very wrong.