"Ah!" said Florence, to whose heart these words went home, "forgive me
but this once. I shall not forgive myself so soon."

And Ernest drew her to his heart, and felt that, with all her faults, a
woman whom he feared he could not render as happy as her sacrifices to
him deserved was becoming very dear to him. In his heart he knew that
she was not formed to render him happy; but that was not his thought,
his fear. Her love had rooted out all thought of self from that
generous breast. His only anxiety was to requite her.

They walked along the sward, silent, thoughtful; and Florence
melancholy, yet blessed.

"That serene heaven, those lovely stars," said Maltravers at last, "do
they not preach to us the Philosophy of Peace? Do they not tell us how
much of calm belongs to the dignity of man, and the sublime essence of
the soul. Petty distractions and self-wrought cares are not congenial
to our real nature; their very disturbance is a proof that they are at
war with our natures. Ah, sweet Florence, let us learn from yon skies,
over which, in the faith of the poets of old, brooded the wings of
primaeval and serenest Love, what earthly love should be,--a thing pure
as light, and peaceful as immortality, watching over the stormy world,
that it shall survive, and high above the clouds and vapours that roll
below. Let little minds introduce into the holiest of affections all
the bitterness and tumult of common life! Let us love as beings who
will one day be inhabitants of the stars!"



CHAPTER IV.