"Have you told any one about it?" I asked.

"No," said she, "not a soul."

"_He_ is my most intimate friend," said I, "but I have kept this secret
from him. He knows nothing about it."

"Of course he does not," said she, "how was it possible for you to tell
him? This is our secret."

I cannot tell the soft, sweet, and soothing consolation which
penetrated my inmost soul at these words. Though few, they had a world
of meaning. I noticed with delight the cool indifference with which she
spoke of _him_. Had she expressed contempt, I should not have been so well
pleased. Perfect indifference was what I wanted, and what I
found. Then, again, she acknowledged me as the only partner in her
secret, thus associating me with herself in one memorable and
impressive way. Nor yet did she ask any questions as to whom I meant.
Her indifference to him was so great that it did not even excite
curiosity as to how I had found out who he was. She was content to take
my own statement without any questions or observations.

And there, as the flickering light of the coal-fire sprang up and died
out; as it threw from time to time the ruddy glow of its uprising
flames upon her, she stood before me--a vision of perfect loveliness
--like a goddess to the devotee, which appears for an instant amid the
glow of some mysterious light, only to fade out of sight a moment
after. The rare and perfect grace of her slender figure, with its dark
drapery, fading into the gloom below--the fair outline of her face--her
sad, earnest, and melancholy expression; the intense and solemn
earnestness of her dark, lustrous eyes--all these conspired to form a
vision such as impressed itself upon my memory forever. This was the
full realization of my eager fancy--this was what I had so longed to
see. I had formed my own ideal of my Lady of the Ice--in private life
--in the parlor--meeting me in the world of society. And here before me
that ideal stood.

Now, it gives a very singular sensation to a fellow to stand face to
face with the woman whom he worships and adores, and to whom he dares
not make known the feelings that swell within him; and still more
singular is this sensation, when this woman, whom he adores, happens to
be one whom he has carried in his arms for an indefinite time; and more
singular yet is it, when she happens to be one whom he has saved once,
and once again, from the most cruel fate; by whose side he has stood
in, what may have seemed the