Meanwhile Eve and Morgan met every day; and he talked to her about her poem, which was the only production of hers that had as yet found its way into print. The poem was the starting-point from whence they travelled on into each other's experiences. Ah, how easily and quickly people glide into familiar intercourse when there is a spiritual kinship between them! Poor Morgan's heart opened to Eve as naturally as a flower uncloses to the sun. Yet he never suspected that this was the beginning of love. The curate had not told his parents of his engagement. He had been morbidly afraid that it would put a sense of distance between the old people and himself. Therefore he had said nothing about it in his letters, but had waited till he should see them face to face. But now that the time had come, he feared to make the disclosure. His mother was in no condition to bear any startling news. And as to Miss Hazleburn--of what consequence could his affairs be to her? So the intimacy went on. He was too blind to see the injustice that he was doing Nelly and Eve herself. "We are really not very new friends," he said to the governess one day. "I knew you through your poem. We met in the spirit before we met in the flesh." "Nobody need be solitary nowadays," answered Eve, brightly. "I have many such spiritual friends, whom I shall probably never see with my bodily eyes. Don't you think that one of the joys of eternity will be in finding out what we have done for each other unconsciously? I am often unspeakably grateful for the printed words that have helped me on." "Do you find many companions in Mr. Gold's house?" he asked. "No," she said, frankly. "You know what it is to like people, and yet have no affinity with them. The Golds' life is a perpetual pleasure-hunt. Parents and children join in the chase from morning till night; there is little rest or stillness in the house. I should be scarcely sorry to leave it." "Are you thinking of leaving it?" Morgan inquired. "Not yet. Indeed, I have no other home," she answered. "I had a hope, last year, that one might be provided for me; but that is over now." They were sitting together in the Fosters' little parlour while this talk went on. It was Sunday afternoon; Mrs. Foster, now steadily making progress towards recovery, was asleep upstairs, and her husband had ventured out to church. The sun was getting low; a yellow light came stealing over the roofs of the opposite houses, and shone full upon Eve's face. Her last words had been spoken in a sad tone; her eyes looked dreamily out into the narrow street. She was very far from realizing the interpretation that Morgan had put upon her remark. Nor did she dream of the sudden turmoil that was working within him, as he sat watching her face.