ught
upon her this letter of declaration, proposal, entreaty.

This letter was the man's life in her hands, and safe, of course. But
surely it was a proof that the man loved her?

Aminta was in her five-and-twentieth year; when the woman who is
uncertain of the having been loved, and she reputed beautiful, desirable,
is impelled by a sombre necessity to muse on a declaration, and nibble at
an idea of a test. If "a dangerous man to play little games with," he
could scarcely be dangerous to a woman having no love for him at all. It
meant merely that he would soon fall to writing letters like this, and he
could not expect an answer to it. But her heart really thanked him, and
wished the poor gentleman to take its dumb response as his reward, for
being the one sole one who had loved her.

Aminta dwelt on "the one sole one." Lord Ormont's treatment had detached
her from any belief in love on his part; and the schoolboy, now ambitions
to become a schoolmaster, was behind the screen unlikely to be lifted
again by a woman valuing her pride of youth, though he had--behold our
deceptions!--the sympathetic face entirely absent from that of Mr.
Adolphus Morsfield, whom the world would count quite as handsome--nay, it
boasted him. He enjoyed the reputation of a killer of ladies. Women have
odd tastes, Aminta thought, and examined the gentleman's handwriting. It
pleased her better. She studied it till the conventional phrases took a
fiery hue, and came at her with an invasive rush.

The letter was cast back into the box, locked up; there an end to it, or
no interdiction of sleep.

Sleep was a triumph. Aminta's healthy frame rode her over petty
agitations of a blood uninflamed, as lightly as she swam the troubled
sea-waters her body gloried to cleave. She woke in the morning peaceful
and mildly reflective, like one who walks across green meadows. Only by
degrees, by glimpses, was she drawn to remember the trotting, cantering,
galloping, leaping of an active heart during night. We cannot, men or
woman, control the heart in sleep at night. There had been wild leapings.
Night will lead an unsatisfied heart of a woman, by way of sleep, to
scale black mountains, jump jagged chasms. Sleep is a horse that laughs
at precipices and abysses. We bid women, moreover, be all heart. They are
to cultivate their hearts, pay much heed to their hearts. The vast realm
of feeling is open to these appointed keepers of the sanctuary household,
who may