l upon her
face, he knew--so he said to himself--he _knew_ the likeness would
vanish in an appalling unlikeness, a mockery, a scoff of the whole night
and its lovely dream--in a face which, if beautiful as that of an angel,
not being Juliet's would be to him ugly, unnatural, a discord with the
music of his memory. Still the night was checkered with moments of
silvery bliss, in the indulgence of the mere, the known fancy of what it
would be if it _were_ she, vanishing ever in the reviving rebuke, that
he must nerve himself for the loss of that which the morning must
dispel. Yet, like one in a dream, who knows it is but a dream, and
scarce dares breathe lest he should break the mirrored ecstasy, he would
not carry the lamp to the bedside: no act of his should disperse the
airy flicker of the lovely doubt, not a movement, not a nearer glance,
until stern necessity should command.

History knows well the tendency of things to repeat themselves. Similar
circumstances falling together must incline to the production of similar
consequent events.

Toward morning Juliet awoke from her long sleep, but she had the vessel
of her brain too empty of the life of this world to recognize barely
that which was presented to her bodily vision. Over the march of two
worlds, that of her imagination, and that of fact, her soul hovered
fluttering, and blended the presentment of the two in the power of its
unity.

The only thing she saw was the face of her husband, sadly lighted by the
dimmed lamp. It was some-distance away, near the middle of the room: it
seemed to her miles away, yet near enough to be addressed. It was a more
beautiful face now than ever before--than even then when first she took
it for the face of the Son of Man--more beautiful, and more like Him,
for it was more humane. Thin and pale with suffering, it was nowise
feeble, but the former self-sufficiency had vanished, and a still sorrow
had taken its place.

He sat sunk in dim thought. A sound came that shook him as with an ague
fit. Even then he mastered his emotion, and sat still as a stone. Or was
it delight unmastered, and awe indefinable, that paralyzed him? He
dared not move lest he should break the spell. Were it fact, or were it
but yet further phantom play on his senses, it should unfold itself; not
with a sigh would he jar the unfolding, but, ear only, listen to the
end. In the utter stillness of the room, of the sleeping house, of the
dark, embracing night, he