Presently John was fast asleep, and Jess, her paroxysm past, was
walking up and down, down and up, her little room, her bare feet
falling noiselessly on the carpeting as she strove to wear out the first
bitterness of her woe. Oh that it lay in her power to recall the past
few days! Oh that she had never seen his face, which must now be ever
before her eyes! But for her there was no such possibility, and she felt
it. She knew her own nature well. Her heart had spoken, and the word it
said must roll on continually through the spaces of her mind. Who can
recall the spoken word, and who can set a limit on its echoes? It is not
so with most women, but here and there may be found a nature where it is
so. Spirits like this poor girl's are too deep, and partake too much
of a divine immutability, to shift and suit themselves to the changing
circumstances of a fickle world. They have no middle course; they cannot
halt half-way; they set all their fortune on a throw. And when the throw
is lost their hearts are broken, and their happiness passes away like a
swallow.

For in such a nature love rises like the wind on the quiet breast of
some far sea. None can say whence it comes or whither it blows; but
there it is, lashing the waters to a storm, so that they roll in thunder
all the long day through, throwing their white arms on high, as they
clasp at the evasive air, till the darkness that is death comes down and
covers them.

What is the interpretation of it? Why does the great wind stir the
deep waters? It does but ripple the shallow pool as it passes, for
shallowness can but ripple and throw up shadows. We cannot tell, but
this we know--that deep things only can be deeply moved. It is the
penalty of depth and greatness; it is the price they pay for the
divine privilege of suffering and sympathy. The shallow pools, the