Always it was a _little_ home. None of her ideas partook of grandeur. She was a pastoral poet, not an epic poet. George did come, and they had many pleasant walks in beautiful October, and crowned each other with garlands of bright autumnal leaves. Their parting betrayed mutual affection; and soon after George wrote to her thus: “I frankly acknowledge to you that I am ambitious, and had fully resolved never to marry a poor girl. But I love you so well, I have no choice left. And now, in the beautiful light that dawns upon me, I see how mean and selfish was that resolution, and how impolitic withal. For is it not happiness we all seek? And how happy it will make me to fulfil your long-cherished dream of a tasteful home! I cannot help receiving from you more than I can give; for your nature is richer than mine. But I believe, dearest, it is always more blessed to give than to receive; and when two think so of each other, what more need of heaven? “I am no flatterer, and I tell you frankly I was disappointed when I first saw you. Unconsciously to myself, I had fallen in love with your soul. The transcript of it, which I saw in the vines and the flowers attracted me first; then a revelation of it from the marked book, the mosses and the ferns. I imagined you _must_ be beautiful; and when I saw you were not, I did not suppose I should ever think of you more. But when I heard you talk, your soul attracted me irresistibly again, and I wondered I ever thought you otherwise than beautiful. Rarely is a beautiful soul shrined within a beautiful body. But loveliness of soul has one great advantage over its frail envelope, it need not decrease with time, but ought rather to increase. “Of one thing rest assured, dear Alice; it is now impossible for me ever to love another, as I love you.”