the globe, and in her left the thunderbolt
that rends asunder all things at her will. No longer can I look upon her
brow; the light of it is insupportable. I skirt the borders of the abyss
of madness too closely to be longer silent. I must speak. I seize this
moment, when courage comes to me, to resist the power which drags me
onward without inquiring whether or not I have the force to follow. Who
is she? Did you know her young? What of her birth? Had she father and
mother, or was she born of the conjunction of ice and sun? She burns and
yet she freeze; she shows herself and then withdraws; she attracts me
and repulses me; she brings me life, she gives me death; I love her and
yet I hate her! I cannot live thus; let me be wholly in heaven or in
hell!"

Holding his refilled pipe in one hand, and in the other the cover
which he forgot to replace, Monsieur Becker listened to Wilfrid with a
mysterious expression on his face, looking occasionally at his daughter,
who seemed to understand the man's language as in harmony with the
strange being who inspired it. Wilfrid was splendid to behold at this
moment,--like Hamlet listening to the ghost of his father as it rises
for him alone in the midst of the living.

"This is certainly the language of a man in love," said the good pastor,
innocently.

"In love!" cried Wilfrid, "yes, to common minds. But, dear Monsieur
Becker, no words can express the frenzy which draws me to the feet of
that unearthly being."

"Then you do love her?" said Minna, in a tone of reproach.

"Mademoiselle, I feel such extraordinary agitation when I see her, and
such deep sadness when I see her no more, that in any other man what I
feel would be called love. But that sentiment draws those who feel it
ardently together, whereas between her and me a great gulf lies, whose
icy coldness penetrates my very being in her presence; though the
feeling dies away when I see her no longer. I leave her in despair; I
return to her with ardor,--like men of science who seek a secret from
Nature only to be baffled, or like the painter who would fain put life
upon his canvas and strives with all the resources of his art in the
vain attempt."

"Monsieur, all that you say is true," replied the young girl, artlessly.

"How can you know, Minna?" asked the old pastor.

"Ah! my father, had you been with us this morning on the summit of the
Falberg, had you seen him praying, you would not ask me that question.
You would