ng into
her wan cheeks; she hid her face on his bosom; and, under the dingy
red flame of the lamp in the stony street, they held each other, as
blessed as if they had been under an orange tree haunted with
fire-flies. For they knew each the heart of the other, and God is
infinite.

How long they stood thus, neither of them knew. The lady would not
have spoken if she could, and the youth could not if he would. But
the lady shivered, and because she shivered, she would have the
youth take his coat. He mocked at cold; made her put her arms in
the sleeves, and buttoned it round her: both laughed to see how wide
it was. Then he took her by the hand, and led her away, obedient as
when first he found her and her heart upon Glashgar. Like two
children, holding each other fast, they hurried along, in dread of
pursuit. He brought her to Daur-street, and gave her into Mrs.
Sclater's arms. Ginevra told her everything except that her father
had struck her, and Gibbie begged her to keep his wife for him till
they could be married. Mrs. Sclater behaved like a mother to them,
sent Gibbie away, and Ginevra to a hot bath and to bed.

CHAPTER LIX.

CATASTROPHE.

Gibbie went home as if Pearl-street had been the stairs of Glashgar,
and the Auld Hoose a mansion in the heavens. He seemed to float
along the way as one floats in a happy dream, where motion is born
at once of the will, without the intermediating mechanics of nerve,
muscle, and fulcrum. Love had been gathering and ever storing
itself in his heart so many years for this brown dove! now at last
the rock was smitten, and its treasure rushed forth to her service.
In nothing was it changed as it issued, save as the dark, silent,
motionless water of the cavern changes into the sparkling, singing,
dancing rivulet. Gibbie's was love simple, unselfish,
undemanding--not merely asking for no return, but asking for no
recognition, requiring not even that its existence should be known.
He was a rare one, who did not make the common miserable blunder of
taking the shadow cast by love--the desire, namely, to be loved--for
love itself; his love was a vertical sun, and his own shadow was
under his feet. Silly youths and maidens count themselves martyrs
of love, when they are but the pining witnesses to a delicious and
entrancing selfishness. But do not mistake me through confounding,
on the other hand, the desire to be loved--which is neither wrong
nor noble, any more