Her dislike of society had at first surprised me; but it made me love her the more. It argued, I thought, her ignorance of her fascination; for I could not doubt, had she known her powers of delighting, that she would never have buried them in so dead a retreat as Cliffegate. She was twenty-seven, a period of a woman's life when her love of pleasure and admiration is strong; though, it must be owned, that this love very often strengthens in proportion as time makes its gratification more difficult. Marrying her as I had, without a deep knowledge of her character, it would not have surprised me had she expressed a desire to change her solitude for a life of pleasure. The dull time she had passed would certainly have justified the wish. Her eagerness therefore to remain hidden from the world pleased me. It illustrated a nature pure and unsophisticated; a heart innocent and sincere. And it made me happy to believe I could always think of her as my own, without having the calmness of my devotion sullied by those breezes of jealousy which society sometimes brings with it, and which one's particular friends generally take care shall increase to gales. We passed our time almost wholly together. She did not like that I should ever be from her side. She would call me from a book or a letter, to come and watch her watering some favourite plants, or any other work she might be at. And when such an excuse would be wanting, she would sit by me, take my hand, and so remain quiet, rubbing her cheek against my shoulder, and by her action and eloquent breathing suggesting the grace and purring of a kitten. It was strange that I should have inspired such a love. This narrative has, I fear, given you but an imperfect conception of my character; yet you may infer enough from the crude sketch to make you wonder that any one so commonplace as I, should have given such life and movement to the deepest and most latent instincts of this beautiful creature's nature. She had well said she was born to be loved. Her sensibilities were singularly acute; her nature warm and sudden; her sympathies too powerful; for they agitated her with more joy and grief than the occasion that bred the emotion justified. Her spirit, made tameless by solitude, desired the corrective of love; her fancies needed sobering; her longings wanted interpreting; her whole nature demanded the warmth of imparted passion to give life to slumbering powers, nourishment to sickly instincts, sap and vigour to the drooping qualities which had developed in loneliness and blossomed in sorrow. Such were the speculations on her character I _then_ indulged in; and from the standpoint I occupied they were just. But when some time had passed, and I got to penetrate her character more deeply, the undefinable feeling about her I have before spoken of became more definite.