selves, deep down in our heart, and smoulder there without smoke,
until some sudden gust of emotion--sorrow--pleasure--anger--God knows
what--fans it into a blaze that we cannot extinguish--into flames so
high that they reach from earth to heaven and light the whole world for
us? Yes, and not only the whole world, but all that unmapped country
within us of which we know so little and in which we are so apt to lose
ourselves."

"He asked me," said the girl. "I had known in a vague way that the
question must come--and I think you knew it too, for that was what you
meant the other day, wasn't it? And I was quite prepared. I meant to
answer him. I meant to stick at nothing, to satisfy him whatever he
asked--and I was going to lie. And as I spoke the words I knew that
they were true, I knew that I loved him, Isabella. No, nothing to do
with pity, although you may be right when you say that pity had
something to do with it in the beginning--but love, such as I did not
know was possible to me."

"And now," asked the older woman, gently, "are you glad or sorry?"

"Sorry!" she cried. "Sorry! How could I be sorry? I am glad."

"You welcome love?"

"I welcome it. It is so wonderful--so beautiful----"

"Love brings suffering."

"I am not afraid of suffering--for myself--only for him. If suffering
comes, it can never take from me the joy I have known."

"The price of love is heavy."

"No matter the price, I will pay it gladly." There was no mistaking
the gladness and the courage which rang in the words.

"Poor child! poor child!" said Isabella softly.

"Do not pity me. There is no need for pity," she said earnestly.
"Isabella--if I lost him--to-morrow--still, I have known--but he is not
going to die, he is going to live."

"The doctor thinks so?"

"Yes; he says there is no reason why he should not live out his
allotted span of life--those were his words."

Isabella did not speak--she was thinking only of Francis, and not at
all of the girl beside her. Which was best for him? Would it not be
kinder, happier, if he died now before he knew? Her face was very
grave and sad; so much so, indeed, that Philippa repeated the words she
had spoken, "He will not die. And I have promised to marry him."

"The difficulties are enormous." The words broke from Isabella half
against her will. Of what use to speak of difficulties to the girl
whose mind refused to acknowledge the existence of any?

"I have planne