er lips.
The man's snowy head and the woman's fair face met in a long kiss which
would have filled the world with astonishment. Maria d'Arxel, at one and
twenty, had fallen In love with Giovanni Selva after having read one of
his books on religious philosophy, translated into French. She wrote to
the unknown author in such ardent words of admiration, that Selva, in
answering, alluded to his fifty-six years and his white hair. The girl
replied that she was aware of both, that she neither offered nor asked
for love, she only craved a few lines from time to time. Her letters
sparkled with brilliant intellect. They came to Selva when he was
passing through a dark crisis, a bitter struggle, which need not be
related here. He thought this Maria d'Arxel might prove his saving star.
He wrote to her again.

"Do you know what anniversary this is?" asked Maria. "Do you remember?"

Giovanni remembered; it was the anniversary of their first meeting.
During the correspondence the two had bared the very depths of their
souls to one another in an inexpressible fervour of sincerity, while as
yet unacquainted save by means of portraits. After they had exchanged
four or five letters, Giovanni asked his unknown correspondent for her
likeness; a request she had expected and dreaded. The girl consented on
condition of a speedy restitution of the photograph, and was in agony
until it was returned, accompanied by some very tender words from her
friend. He was charmed with the intellectual, passionate, and youthful
face, with the sweetness of the great eyes, with the symmetry of the
figure. Then when they had arranged to meet, he coming from the Lake of
Como, she from Brussels to Hergyswyl near Lucerne, both had been in a
fever of apprehension. She reflected:

"The portrait pleased him, but the bearing of the real person, a line,
the colour of the garments, the manner of meeting, the first words, the
tone of voice, may perhaps destroy his love at one blow."

He thought:

"She knows my face, ravaged by time, my white hair, and she loves them
in the picture, but I am ageing day by day; perhaps when she sees me
this incredible love will be killed at a blow."

He had reached Hergyswyl by boat some hours before her; she, leaving
Basel in the morning, arrived by the Bruenigbahn in the afternoon.

"Do you know," Maria continued, "when I did not see you at the station,
my first sensation was one of relief; I trembled so! The second
sensation wa