he top of
my voice, "She loves me!" At present, when I am able to think more
calmly of this joy, I find it was composed of various active forces.
There was the joy of the artist who sees that a masterpiece he has
begun is progressing satisfactorily; maybe also the satisfaction
of the spider when the fly comes near the web; but there was also
kindness, pity, great tenderness, and all that over which angels
rejoice, as the poet has it. I felt sorry the defenceless little thing
should fall into my hands; and that pity increased the love, and the
desire to conquer Aniela. I felt also a sting of conscience that I had
deceived her, and yet I had the consciousness that I had spoken the
truth when I asked for her sympathy and friendship. I want it as I
want my health. But I did not confess to all my desires, because the
time for it has not yet come. I did not tell her the whole truth, so
as not to frighten the timid soul. I shall come to it by and by, and
the road which leads towards it in the straightest line is the best.

10 May.

The weather is still serene, and everything is serene between us.
Aniela is calm and happy. She thoroughly believes in what I said,
and, as I did not ask for anything but sisterly affection, and her
conscience approves, she allows her heart to follow its dictates.
I alone know that it is a loyal way of deceiving herself and her
husband; for under cover of sisterly affection there is another
feeling, the growth of which I am watching daily. Of course I do not
intend to undeceive her until the feeling grows too strong for her.
By and by she will be enveloped in a flame which neither will, nor
consciousness of duty, nor the modesty of the woman white as a swan,
will be able to keep under control. Constantly the thought dwells with
me that since I love her most, mine is the higher right. What can
there be more logical or more true? The unwritten code of ethics of
all people, of whatever faith, says that the mutual belonging of man
and woman to each other is based upon love.

But to-day I am so restful and happy that I prefer to feel rather
than to reason. There is now between us a great cordiality, ease, and
intimacy. How we were made for each other, cling to each other, and
how the dear little thing delights in the warmth, delusive warmth
of brotherly affection. Never since my return have I seen her
so cheerful. Formerly when I looked at her she reminded me of
Shakspeare's "Poor Tom." A nature li