“When she ceased—the last chords of voice and instrument still vibrating in the silence—she rose, and came slowly toward me. It was in my heart to tell her all; but she said— “‘You have often told me I was unlike other women. It is a dangerous compliment. No woman can be happy who is unlike her sex: I have come to that conclusion at last. But, to show you that you were not mistaken in the past, I am going to tell you something about myself.’ “Here she held out her hand to me—oh! how impressive that touch, yet how kind!—and raised her eyes to mine, with a calm, searching look as a sister might have done. “‘I understood you when we first met. We were so much alike—skeptic perhaps in heart and creed. Restless, wandering, seeking rest and finding none. It was not strange that I turned toward you—that I thought I loved you—close sympathy was the element of love I longed for. I was unhappy away from you; your words, and tone, and glance had more power over me than you ever dreamed of. I longed sometimes—in my loneliness and solitude—to hear you tell me that my love was returned, to feel your arm about me, your kiss upon my forehead, your eyes fixed on mine—as once I saw them—above all, to hear your voice murmur Beatrice, dearest! all wild passionate words—that my heart yearned for. Had you sought me then, I, no doubt, should now have been your wife!’ “Beatrice, my wife! My head swam, she must have seen my frame tremble with the thought. “‘But we were separated,’ she said, still calmly; I wondered at her calmness, when I was so shaken, ‘and since then I am changed. Life has assumed a different hue: I am calmer’—yes, I could see that and almost curse her calmness—‘I can be thankful that you did not ask me to be your wife; we shall both be happier; and, as friends, we may still be of much use to each other.’ “‘Last night was the test of all my resolutions—at first, when I met your hand, your glance, they wavered: the old time rose before me—the old yearning for sympathy with my mad moods; but I fortified them by new purposes, and I was thankful for the trial. Shall we be friends?’ “‘But why, O, why, Beatrice,’ I said for the first time—‘why not more?’ “‘Because our natures are _too much_ alike. Both too impulsive—too sensitive—too imaginative. Life, and its trials, and associations are real. I need something to oppose the blast—we should both bend one way. The fire that raged so fiercely could but soon die out, or consume all that fed it. Do you not see this?’ “Yes, I knew, she was true, she was right; I have felt it a hundred times since, but then I only felt all I had lost—all I was so near possessing—that all hope was past. I knew it by her tone, her manner, the gentle pressure of her hand. I knew her self-control must be the effect of an irrevocable judgment—it was a mood foreign to her, and could not be long sustained.