Tears were in her eyes, Her clasped hands clinging fondly to my arm, While under droop of lashes she replied: "I feel, dear Paul, that this is sophistry. It does not touch my judgment or my heart With motive of conviction. In what way God may be working to reclaim your will And worship to himself, I cannot know. If through your love for me, or mine for you, Then, as his grateful, willing instrument, I yield myself to him. But this is true: God is not worshipped in his attributes. I do not love your attributes, but you. Your attributes all meet me otherwhere, Blended in other personalities, Nor do I love, nor do I worship them, Or those who bear them. E'en the spotted pard Will dare a danger which will make you pale, But shall his courage steal my heart from you? You cheat your conscience, for you know that I May like your attributes, yet love not you; Nay, worship them indeed, despising you. I do not argue this to damp your joy, But make it rational. If you presume Perfection in me,--if you lavish all The largess of your worship and your love On me, imposing on my head a crown Stolen from God's, there surely waits your heart The pang of disappointment. There will come A sad, sad time, when, in your famished soul, The cry for something more, and more divine, Will rise, nor be repressed." There is a charm In earnestness, when it inspires the lips Of one we love, that spoils their argument, And yields so much of pleasure and of pride, That the conviction which they seek evades Their eager fingers, and with throbbing wings Crows from its covert. She was casuist, Cunning and clear; and I was proud of her; And though I knew that she had swept away My refuges of lies like chaff, and proved My fair words fustian, I was moved to mirth Over the solemn ruin. Had it been A decent thing to do, I should have laughed Full in her face; but knowing that her words Were offspring of her conscience and her love, I could no less than hold respectfully Her earnest warning. "Well, I'll take the risk," I said. "While you shall have the argument, I will have you, who, on the whole, I like Better than that. And you shall have your way, And I my own, in common liberty, With things like these. You, doubtless, are to me What I am not to you. We are unlike In life and circumstance--alike alone In this: that better than all else on earth We love each other. This is basis broad For happiness, or broad enough for me. If you build better, you are fortunate, Ay, fortunate indeed; and some fine day We'll talk about it. Let us have to-night Joy in our new possessions, and defer This little joust of wits and consciences To more convenient season."