see without revealing all she knew. For the same reason, she could not
show Nevil her full appreciation of his tact and delicacy. How
useless--trying to hide his thoughts--he ought to know by now: but how
beautiful--how endearing!

That she, who had boldly defied all gods and godlings, all claims of
caste and family, should have reaped so rich a harvest----! For
her--high priestess of the inner life--that was the miracle of miracles:
scarcely less so to-day than in that crowning hour when she had placed,
her first man-child in the arms of her husband--still, at heart, lord of
her being. For the tale of her inner life might almost be told in two
words--she loved.

Even now--so many years after--she thrilled to remember how, in that one
magical moment, without nearness or speech or touch, the floating
strands of their destinies had become so miraculously entangled, that
neither gods nor godlings, nor household despots of East or West, had
power to sever them. From one swift pencil sketch, stolen without
leave--he sitting on the path below, she dreaming on the Hotel balcony
above--had blossomed the twin flower of their love: the deeper revealing
of marriage--its living texture woven of joy and pain; and the wonder of
their after-life together--a wonder that, to her ardent, sensitive
spirit, still seemed new every morning, like the coming of the sun. A
poet in essence, she shared with all true poets that sense of eternal
freshness in familiar things that, perhaps, more than any other gift of
God, keeps the bloom on every phase and every relation of life. By her
temperament of genius, she had quickened in her husband the flickering
spark that might else have been smothered under opposing influences.
Each, in a quite unusual degree, had fulfilled the life of the other,
and so wrought harmony from conflicting elements of race and religion