“There is no danger,” Ethel said, wistfully. “I understand him, and I am sure he understands me, but”--she hesitated and caught her mother's arm in a tense clasp, as they started on toward the house--“I am sure, very sure, mother, that he--that Paul is not _really_ in love with me. You don't think so, either, mother--you know you do not! You have so many silly fancies. You imagine that every man who looks at me is in love with me. Paul will never love _any_ woman, much less me. You see, I _know_. I've talked to him a good deal here of late, and--and I understand him. Really, I do, mother.” Alone in her room, a moment later, Ethel stood before her mirror looking at her reflection. “He loves me--oh, he loves me!” she whispered. “He's loved me all these years. He is the grandest and best man that ever lived. He has lifted me above the earth, and made me understand the meaning of life. Oh, Paul, Paul!” She sank down by the window and looked out. The rain was beginning to fall heavily. It pattered against the window-sill and wet her sleeve and hair, but she did not move. She breathed in the cooling air as if it were a delightful intoxicant borne down from heaven. The dripping leaves of a honeysuckle tapped her hot cheeks. She thrust her fair head farther out, felt the water trickle down her cheeks and chin, and laughed. Her mood was ecstatic, transcendent, and full of gratitude unspeakable. CHAPTER XXX |ETHEL had been to her uncle's grave one afternoon, and was returning through the wood which lay between the farmhouse and the village when she met Paul. “I've just been up with some flowers,” she said. “Oh, it is so sad! I had a good cry.” “I have no doubt it made you feel better,” he said, looking at her tenderly. “Nature has made us that way.” “I am afraid I became rather despondent,” she answered. “Oh, Paul, I wish I had all your beautiful faith! You have actually reconciled me to poor dear Jennie's death. I can already see that it was best. It has made me kinder and broader in many ways. Do you know, Paul, there are times when I am fully conscious of her presence--I don't mean in the ordinary, spiritualistic sense, but something--I don't know how to put it--but something like the highest mental essence of my dear cousin seems to fold me in an embrace that is actually transporting. I find myself full of tears and joy at the same time, and almost dazed with the indescribable reality of it.” “Many sensitive persons have that experience in sorrow,” Paul said, “and I am obliged to think there is some psychic fact beneath it. There is something undoubtedly uplifting in a great grief. It is a certain cure for spiritual blindness. It tears the scales of matter from our eyes as nothing else can do.” “I can't, however, keep from being despondent over my poor uncle,” Ethel sighed, as she agreed with him. “Oh, Paul, he really wasn't prepared. He plunged into the dark void without the faintest faith or hope.”