outward touch thrilled his inmost being; this hand, meeting his for an
instant, shook his soul.

Indefinite and undefined,--there was no thought beyond the moment; no
wish to take this young girl into his arms and to call her "wife" had
shaped itself in his brain. It was enough for both that they were in one
another's presence, that they breathed the same air, that they could see
each other as they raised their eyes, and exchange a word, a look, a
smile. Whatever storm of emotion the future might hold for them was not
manifest in this sunny and delightful present.

Upon one subject alone did they disagree with feeling,--in other matters
their very dissimilarity proving an added charm. This was a curious
question to come between lovers. All his life Surrey had been a devotee
of his country and its flag. While he was a boy Kossuth had come to
these shores, and he yet remembered how he had cheered himself hoarse
with pride and delight, as the eloquent voice and impassioned lips of
the great Magyar sounded the praise of America, as the "refuge of the
oppressed and the hope of the world." He yet remembered how when the
hand, every gesture of which was instinct with power, was lifted to the
flag,--the flag, stainless, spotless, without blemish or flaw; the flag
which was "fair as the sun, clear as the moon," and to the oppressors of
the earth "terrible as an army with banners,"--he yet remembered how, as
this emblem of liberty was thus apostrophized and saluted, the tears
had rushed to his boyish eyes, and his voice had said, for his heart,
"Thank God, I am an American!"

One day he made some such remark to her. She answered, "I, too, am an
American, but I do not thank God for it."