“Dear Zuleime, confide in me, and relieve your overburdened bosom. A secret is so hard to keep alone in a sorrowful breast. Lay yours on my heart, Zuleime, and it shall be safer there than my own life. Tell me—what tie is it that binds you to Frank?” “Hush, oh, hush!” “Tell me, darling—you know it is not from curiosity I ask—it is that I wish you to relieve your heart.” “Hush! I promised him not to tell.” “Death absolves you from that promise. A painful secret is very hard to keep alone. _I_ know it, dearest, for _I_, too, have a secret. Now will you trust me?” “Hush! hush! It was his last request—I must comply with it!” said the girl, with wild eyes. Catherine knelt down before her, clasped her arms around her, and partly to win her confidence, and partly to draw her mind from dwelling upon the wo that was crazing her, said:— “Zuleime, look at me. I am going to tell you my secret, that which it will pain and humble my heart to tell!—that which it makes my cheek burn now only to think of! Zuleime, I love a man who never sought, and who would despise my love! And with whom it is forever and forever impossible that I should marry. Yet I love him so much—so much, that my heart is ready to burst with its powerless longing to do him some good! Zuleime, I would give him myself—(nay, never mind my cheek burning—I will speak in spite of its protest)—or any dearest faculty or possession of mine, if it only could increase his happiness. Zuleime, there is a richness and fullness of joy in sacrificing one’s self for one we love that passes all understanding.” “I know there is,” breathed the mourner, looking down in her face seriously. “That is the joy that I long for. And oh, believe me, I would sacrifice myself or any possession or faculty I have, if it would only add to his happiness or power. Eyesight is a precious treasure, is it not? If I could give mine to him, and endow him with perfect vision down to deep old age, I would consent to be dark forever. The power of speech is a great gift—if by the loss of mine I could endow him with irresistible eloquence, I would be dumb forever. _He_ thinks, Zuleime, that I have talent. And sometimes _I_ think—but I don’t know, either! Anyhow, if by yielding _all_ mine I could add a mite to the treasures of his intellect, I would be willing to be a fool for life. In a word—if by abdicating all my being, I could add to the largeness of his life, I would glow with joy to do it.” “Do not love him so! He will die if you do! _I know it!_ Frank died!” “And yet, Zuleime, it is not that I wish to _lose_ my being, but to _add_ to it. I do not know why it is, but I feel—not like an individual, independent existence, but like the complement of that other existence—a half life—not full and complete of itself, waiting to be joined to the other half.”