the image of a sweet,
wistful face glowing with healthy physical life, and yet with all that
delicate refinement of coloring and feature which had made her face
linger in his artist's memory for years before she had dwelt in his
man's heart. It was a torture of hell, this, that the fairest and
sweetest part of a man's life--his love--should come to him at such a
time. And then for one brief moment all memory of his misery passed away
from him, and his whole being became absorbed in a luxury of
recollection. He thought of the change which his love had wrought in
him. What had life been before? A long series of artistic and
philosophical abstractions, bringing their own peculiar content, but a
content never free from disquieting thought and restless doubts. How
could it be otherwise? Was he not human like other men? Asceticism and
intellect, and a certain purity of life which an almost epicurean
refinement had rendered beautiful to him, these, easily keeping in sway
his passionate temperament through all the long years of his life, now
only served to fan the flame of that great pure love which had suddenly
leaped up within him, a blazing, unquenchable fire. Human emotion once
aroused, had thrilled through all his being with a sweet, heart-stirring
music, and his whole nature was shaking from its very foundation. To him
such a love seemed like the rounding of his life, the panacea for all
that vague disquiet which, even in the moments of most perfect
intellectual serenity, had sometimes disturbed him. The love of such a
man was no light thing. It had mingled with his heart's blood, with the
very essence of all his being. No death, no annihilation was possible
for it. It was a part of himself, woven unchangeably into his life in a
glowing skein, the brilliant colors of which could never fade. He looked
into the future, golden with the light of such a love, and he saw a
vision of perfect happiness, of joy beyond all expression, of deep, calm
content, surpassing anything which he had known. Hand in hand he saw two
figures, himself and her, gliding through the years with a sort of
effortless energy, tasting together of everything in life that was
sweet, and pure, and beautiful; scattering all trouble and worldly
vexation to the winds, by the touchstone of their undying love. There
was intoxication--ethereal intoxication in such a vision. The winds blew
against him, and the torrents of driven rain, cold and stinging, dashed
the