She arch’d her answer with so rare a blush, That all my doubts dissolved; and, catching truth From hers contagious, like a boy confused, All fused in frankness bubbling o’er the brim, I blurted out about my older love; To root it out would root out love itself, And not to do so, leave none else a place. “I love not you!” she cried, with look so changed, My weight of shame had sunk me through the floor. But, driven to words, like one some startle shocks, I stammer’d “Elbert!”—and stood shock’d in truth; For had I wrench’d it from her bodily, Scarce redder had her flushing brow repell’d My wresting rudely such a secret thence. At one bound then my honor had return’d. A bandit had I been, to force the spring That lock’d her secret—but had spied her soul!— And back to right it brought me. “Pardon, Grace,” I breathed, then hush’d: With strange and holy power, New-welling love seem’d fountain’d in my heart, And shower’d and stream’d through all my thrilling veins; And then I check’d it. She was not for me, Alas, unworthy! She was Elbert’s—all! “Grace,” breathed I, “you are doubly now my friend, And doubly dear, since Elbert’s dearest friend; Thank Heaven that you have loved so true a man. I go to him.” “Nay not to him,” she urged. But I, though yielding to her, as it seem’d, Made loose the letter for the sake of spirit; Nor promised aught, unless he loved her not. LXI. But Elbert, found, the whole sweet truth confess’d, With all his love for her so satisfied, And all the sacrifice for me so clear, I honor’d God the more from this, the hour I found His honor so encased in man. “Nay, thank me not,” he said. “You brought me her. Nor did I dream I loved her, ere I sought Your cause to plead; and, aim’d for what it wills, My will is wilful. There, you know the whole.” And soon, as if he fear’d our former strife Were not yet still’d, “And you, perhaps, were right With Edith, too,” he said; “at least, were safe. Hold still to truth. It yet may save us both.” LXII. And then I learn’d—as many a friend has learn’d— Who with them strove my joy for them to share, How much more joy was theirs, when theirs alone. But this could scarcely turn my thought aside From self, left lonelier now than e’er before. I strove to drown my grief in work. The work Was but a worm’s that eats from day to day The morrow’s bed, at morning dragging on A soulless trunk, through troubles void of hope.