maiden, and was loved in return; but he was a noble, she
a peasant. The sisters were angry, and quarreled, and two hearts were
broken. Why? Because, a hundred years ago, one soldier slew another in
battle, who threatened the life of his king. This gave him title and
honors, and his great grandson expiated the blood shed at that time, with
a disappointed life.

"The statisticians say a heart is broken every hour, and I believe it.
But why? In almost every case, because the world does not recognize love
between 'strange people,' unless it be between man and wife. If two
maidens love the same man--the one must fall as a sacrifice. If two men
love the same maiden, one or both must fall as a sacrifice. Why? Cannot
one love a maiden, without wishing to marry her? Cannot one look upon a
woman, without desiring her for his own? You close your eyes, and I feel
I have said too much. The world has changed the most sacred things in
life into the most common. But, Marie, enough! Let us talk the language
of the world when we must talk, and act in it, and with it. But let us
preserve a sanctuary where two hearts can speak the pure language of the
heart, undisturbed by the raging of the world without. The world itself
honors this seclusion, this courageous resistance, which noble hearts,
conscious of their own rectitude, oppose to the ordinary course of
things. The attentions, the amenities, the prejudices of the world are
like a climbing plant. It is pleasant to see an ivy, with its thousand
tendrils and roots, decorating the solid wall-work; but it should not be
allowed too luxuriant growth, else it will penetrate every crevice of the
structure, and destroy the cement which welds it together. Be mine,
Marie; follow the voice of your heart. The word which now hangs upon
your lips decides forever your life and mine--my happiness and yours."

I was silent. The hand I held in mine returned the warm pressure of the
heart. A storm raged in her breast, and the blue heaven before me never
seemed so beautiful as now, while the storm swept by, cloud upon cloud.

"Why do you love me?" said she, gently, as if she must still delay the
moment of decision.

"Why, Marie? Ask the child why it is born; ask the flower why it
blossoms; ask the sun why it shines. I love you because I must love you.
But if I am compelled to answer further, let this book, lying by you,
which you love so much, speak for me:

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