pillow at night, if this new revelation was
last in her thought as she fell asleep, if it mingled with the song of
the birds in the spring morning, as some great good pervading the world,
is there anything distinguishing in such an experience that it should be
dwelt on? And if there were questionings and little panics of doubt, did
not these moments also reveal Margaret to herself more certainly than
the hours of happy dreaming?

Questionings no doubt there were, and, later, serious questionings;
for habit is almost as strong as love, and the old ways of life and of
thought will reassert themselves in a thoughtful mind, and reason will
insist on analyzing passion and even hope.

Gradually the home life and every-day interests began to assume their
natural aspect and proportions. It was so sweet and sane, this home
life, interesting and not feverish. There was time for reading, time for
turning over things in the mind, time for those interchanges of feeling
and of ideas, by the fireside; she was not required to be always on
dress parade, in mind or person, always keyed up to make an impression
or receive one; how much wider and sounder was Morgan's view of the
world, allowing for his kindly cynicism, than that prevalent in the
talk where she had lately been! How sincere and hearty and free ran the
personal currents in this little neighborhood! In the very fact that
the daily love and affection for her and interest in her were taken for
granted she realized the difference between her position here and that
among newer friends who showed more open admiration.

Little by little there was a readjustment. In comparison, the city life,
with its intensity of action and feeling, began to appear distant, not
so real, mixed, turbid, even frivolous. And was Henderson a vanishing
part of this pageant? Was his figure less distinct as the days went by?
It could not be affirmed. Love is such a little juggler, and likes, now
and again, to pretend to be so reasonable and judicious. There were no
more letters. If there had been a letter now and then, on any excuse,
the nexus would have been more distinct: nothing feeds the flame exactly
like a letter; it has intention, personality, secrecy. And the little
excitement of it grows. Once a week gets to be twice a week, three
times, four times, and then daily. And then a day without a letter is
such a blank, and so full of fear! What can have happened? Is he ill?
Has he changed? The opium ha