Bernard, dearest, look at me. All things can be changed by fashion or
expediency save a woman's love, and that is eternal. Don't think,
please, of any of these terrible things that may be in store for us, or
what other people would think or say. I want you to remember that love,
even though it be personal love, is far above all circumstance. No power
in this world can alter or change it. It belongs to that better part of
ourselves which lifts us above all misfortune and trouble. You have
given me a great happiness, Bernard, and you shall not take it away from
me. Whatever happens to you, it is my right to share it. Remember, for
the future, it is 'we,' not 'I.' You must not think of yourself alone in
anything, for I belong now to everything that concerns you."

And so it was that for the first time in his life Bernard Maddison, who
had written much concerning them, much that was both faithful and
beautiful, saw into the inner life of a true woman. Only for the man
whom she loves will she thus lift the curtain from before that sweet
depth of unselfishness which makes even the homeliest of her sex one of
the most beautiful of God's creations; and he, if he be in any way a man
of human sensibility and capacity, must feel something of that wondering
awe, that reverence with which Bernard Maddison drank in the meaning of
her words. The mute anxiety of her tearful gaze, the color which came
and fled from her face--he understood all these signs. They were to him
the physical, the material covering for her appeal. A life of grand
thoughts, of ever-climbing ideas, of pure and lofty aims, had revealed
to him nothing so noble and yet so sweetly human as this; had filled his
being with no such heart-shattering emotion as swept through him at that
moment. A woman's hand had lifted him out from his despair into a higher
state, and there was a great humility in the silent gesture with which
he yielded his will to hers.

And then again there were spoken words between them which no chronicles
should report, and a certain calm happiness took up its settled place in
his heart, defiant of that despair which could not be driven out. Then
came that reawakening to mundane things which seems like a very great
step indeed in such cases. She looked at the clock, and gave a little
start.

"Bernard, it is nearly eleven o'clock," she cried. "We must go into the
drawing-room at once. What will aunt think of us? You must come with me,
of course; bu