“ ‘Does he?’ I involuntarily whispered to myself; following the steady poise of her head and the assured movements of her graceful form, with a glance of doubt, but loving her all the same, O loving her all and ever the same!
“ ‘Your father is not the man to cross you when the object of your affections is as worthy as this gentleman. He loved your mother too fondly.’
“ ‘He did?’ She had turned quick as a flash and was looking me straight in the eyes.
“ ‘I never saw such union!’ I exclaimed, vaguely remembering that her mother’s name had always seemed to have power to move her. ‘There was no parade of it before the world; but here at their own fireside, it was heart to heart and soul to soul. It was not love it was assimilation.’
“The young girl rose upon me like a flame; her very eyes seemed to dart fire; her lips looked like living coals; she was almost appalling in her terrible beauty and superhuman passion. ‘Not love!’ she exclaimed, her every word falling like a burning spark, ‘not love but assimilation! Yet do you suppose if I told my father that my soul had found its mate; my heart its other half; that this, this nature,’ here she struck her breast as she would a stone, ‘had at last found its master; that the wayward spirit of which you have sometimes been afraid, was become a part of another’s life, another’s soul, another’s hope, do you suppose he would listen? Hush!’ she cried, seeing me about to speak. ‘You talk of love, what do you know of it, what does he know of it, who saw his young wife die, yet himself consented to live? Is love a sitting by the fire with hand locked in hand while the winter winds rage and the droning kettle sings? Love is a