hat knows no change of
aspect throughout the livelong year; or, if it vary, swells its
orb in winter," she observed, "even as I would now appear to you
with fuller favor, amidst this young acquaintance's chilly prospect."

"Chilly! it is summer wherever lovers cast their eyes, the bright
Bermudas. Do not libel love, nor our sweet fortunes," cried Claude
impetuously: "For me, there never will be winter where you are;
and why, when I am with you, should you thus seem to shiver, as it
were, in the shadow of November?"

"I am no casuist," she said, "and yet it would appear to be too
selfish in me, too much like to fraud, should I accept all that
you offer me, such vast and personal advantage, and for which I
bring you no equivalent, no dower, no estate; nothing to counterpoise
the wide possessions that you will inherit;--nothing that may
conciliate your family, rich in material things and heaped with
honors,--save my poor love;--and what were that?"

"More than them all," ejaculated Claude, "but why these scruples?
In human hearts love is not placed against love, as in the scales
the commodity is placed against the weight; neither is it exchanged
for land, or bartered for position; but it is always given, and is
the donor's whole, unmeasured and immeasurable. It is infinite,
growing whilst it is being given, even as the horizon grows upon
the eye of him who travels towards it. It _is_ because _it must_ be;
it is unselfish; nay, unto itself it is unjust; often giving the
most where it receives the least; possessing nothing, yet possessing
all, if it possesses but all its object's heart. It is towards its
object as is the encircling and cloud-breeding sea unto the verdant
island, encompassing, and in soft showers, shedding itself over
it. As the sea sheds itself in soft showers upon the island, so do
I shed my fondness, and would shed my fortune, over you, and in
return seek for yourself,--no more, for what more could you give,
what more could I receive, who count all else as worthless dross.
What hinders then our marriage?"

"Your father," was replied.

"He would not consent unto our nuptials though I should pray him
on my bended knees, so obstinate and unyielding is his pride,"
asseverated Claude.

"My guardian, too, is proud," answered Amanda.

"Let us not wait, but wed without, and not against their leave,
then;" Montigny urged adroitly:--"but your guardian will consent:
he has avowed as much unto me privately;