"I cannot think love so hastily created," she said, not attending to his other words; "'tis of slower growth." "_Growth!_ yes; but I tried to give you the author's idea. They, unacknowledged, loved one another a long time, and a word opened their eyes to the truth." "There are few who make sacrifices for love," she replied, "and such, when made, are seldom appreciated." "Pardon me, we differ. When _truly_ made, from sincere affection, we bow down in almost adoration of the giver--'tis so sweet to give! The heart feels so light when it has yielded all its store; buoyant and healthful, it only grieves at its own poverty and ungathering powers; for it would fain, like a bee, renew the sweet store, to carry all home to one hive." "How may we know such a gift would be prized?" "By reading in a never closed page, by the eyes writ; but some do not love making sacrifices,--they cost dear." She felt, if this subject were continued in this strain, her courage would fail her. "Not yet!" she thought; "he shall suffer for all I felt the day he quitted me so abruptly." "Sacrifices are foolish things," she said aloud; "good for boys and girls--men do not value them; they are like water poured on the ground." "Which brings forth flowers," he added; "but I quite agree with you, they _are_ foolish; but then the mere human heart cannot boast of unerring wisdom. How stupid it is," he said, changing his tone, "to be walking round this _mare_! This is no god or _diable_ there; let us pursue that avenue before us; we will return hither. Now," he continued, when they were side by side in a quiet alley, "tell me _how_ one may school the heart not to offer itself up in sacrifice?" "There is no such thing as an appreciated sacrifice," she said proudly, "for a woman; to offer one, there must be a not desecrated altar--man's heart never _could_ be such; they are all deceitful, and profaned--on the like, I should trample as on a reptile!" "It might turn, and leave an unerring sting." "How? I do not understand you!" "In bruising a weed, we may trample on a flower; and our own heart never arise to vigour or life again." As he spoke, he leaned almost over her saddle-bow, and looked in her face. "I do not fear that, but we were speaking of the thing we _dare_ not love. Such a love I would look upon, in all its phases, till my eye grew tired, and my heart sunk to rest." "What constitutes that which we _dare_ not love?" "The thing we should sacrifice too much in loving, and, so doing, lose our own weight in the balance, and--" "And," he interrupted, "be slighted by the person we _fear_ to love, not being certain of gaining love for love, and gratitude, everlasting gratitude, for the word which raised us from despair to generous hope!"