She blushed deeply, and bowed her crimson brow upon his bosom, murmuring: “Do I? I am sorry. I suppose maidens do not talk so; do they?” “I do not know how maidens do or should talk, any more than you do,” answered Magnus, and then a singular expression passed over his countenance. He bent his gaze upon her, with a look of profound thought and searching inquiry, as though to read the depths of that heart she had so freely laid open to his perusal. And he said, very seriously: “I do not know how maidens talk, for I have spoken with but one maiden before of love.” He paused and gazed down deeply into her eyes, as if to read her most hidden thought and feeling—possibly he expected to see some trace of jealousy there—he saw only the calm, profound repose of love, deep joy, and infinite trust. He resumed: “I never talked with but one maiden of love before; she was my first love.” Again he looked down, and saw upon her beautiful face the same ineffable peace. He continued: “I loved her passionately. I lost her. It nearly maddened me.” For the last time he gazed down upon her, as she lay quietly over his arm, with her face turned up to his, but her whole countenance radiated with a sort of calm, rapt ecstasy, as though she were then in the possession of all the bliss possible on earth. He gazed for a moment, full of astonishment, and then quietly asked: “Is it possible that this gives you no uneasiness, my love?” “Does what?” “The thought of my first love.” “No, dearest. Why should it?” “‘Why should it?’ What a question. Why should it not?” “I don’t know, I am sure. When I do, I’ll tell you.” “Yet,” said Magnus thoughtfully, “though the idea of my having had a first love gives you no pain, you felicitated yourself and me very much upon the fact of your having had no other lover.” “Oh, that was a very different thing. Don’t you feel that it was?” “Yes; I feel it. But tell me now—think—why is it that the thought of my first love does not distress you?” “Indeed, I do not know at all. I only know by the sure inspiration of my soul, and feel in every nerve of my body, that you love me; and I am so ineffably blessed.” “My darling Elsie!” he said, joyously kissing the lids down upon her two sweet eyes. “My darling Elsie, you are not selfish or jealous for yourself at all. I only wished to probe your heart a little. You were so jealous for me that I thought perhaps you might be so for yourself. You are not, my darling Elsie; my light of life! You are the only woman I ever loved! Yet, dearest, I told you no fiction. You, yourself, were ‘the maiden to whom I spoke before of love.’ But it was soon after you returned from school. You, yourself, were the maiden whom I lost,—for a little while, during our short misunderstanding,—and whose loss nearly maddened me. Oh, come! enter the heart of hearts, and live there forever!” He clasped her closer, and they subsided into silence, or conversed only with their eyes.