y!

No doubt it was very wise, but Jenny was wiser. She could never belong
to herself again. She was his, and his only, for ever; and if he
died--if he were to be taken away ...

But he could never be taken from her any other way? No one else, nothing
but death, could take him ...

"No, nothing but death--and perhaps not even death."

"You are sure, darling? O, you are quite, quite sure?"

"Sure from my soul, little child. Look in it and see."

A lover's eyes are his soul.

Yes, Theophil loved Jenny, loved her even more with her own dependence
on love than he knew of. He was, the reader need scarcely be told, an
almost wildly ambitious man, and a few months ago he would have said
that there was nothing which was more to him than the expression of the
power that was in him. But there was something that was even more to him
now, and if it could be imagined that he might some day be asked to
choose between his ambition and Jenny, he could honestly have answered
from his soul, "Give me Jenny."

Whoever thinks this an easily natural answer to make, may know something
about love, but evidently knows little about ambition. Still, life
seldom sets us such silly examination questions as that, and need one
say that that question was never put to Jenny's lover? He was far too
proud of the woman he had made of that little measure of porcelain and
that handful of stars.

CHAPTER XII

HOW THE RENAISSANCE CAME IN PERSON TO NEW ZION

The winter months had gone by; all but one of those incendiary lectures
had been given, not without storm and tempest; "The Dawn" still came up
each week with anger and singing, and the first year of Londonderry's
ministry at New Zion neared its close. The lecture season was presently
to end, on the last Friday in March, with a concert which was to include
a series of recitations by a lady-reciter from London. Londonderry had
written to a lecture agency for the name of a likely reciter, man or
woman, and they had sent him the name of Isabel Strange.

On the occasion of the last lecture, Mr. Moggridge had not been
satisfied with the colour of the platform. It wanted repainting, and I
think it very likely that it was a strain of that boyishness which I
hope survives in us all, and one of whose quaint fancies is an envy of
house-painters, so happy all day with paint-pot and brush and great
smooth boards to dab and smooth, that decided him to do the job himself.
Mr. Moggridge had this gr