“‘Shall we not meet again?’ whispered she, bending her face down close to his. ‘Shall we not spend our immortal life together? Surely, surely, we have ransomed one another, with all this woe! Thou lookest far into eternity with those bright, dying eyes!’” * * * * * In the endless recurrence of “the old story,” the consecutive and unintermitting reproduction of the pictures “of the primitive, pastoral ages, Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,” we can find no touches more exquisite than these from Rev. Charles Kingsley’s “Yeast;” “They parted with a long, lingering pressure of the hand, which haunted her young palm all night in dreams. Argemone got into the carriage, Lancelot jumped into the dog-cart, took the reins and relieved his heart by galloping Sandy up the hill and frightening the returning coachman down one bank and his led horses up the other. “‘_Vogue la Galère_, Lancelot! I hope you have made good use of your time?’ “But Lancelot spoke no word all the way home, and wandered till dawn in the woods around his cottage, kissing the hand which Argemone’s hand had pressed.” [Ch. vii.] “Entranced in wonder and pleasure, Argemone let her eyes wander over the drawing. And her feelings for Lancelot amounted almost to worship, as she apprehended the harmonious unity of the manifold conception, the rugged boldness of the groups in front, the soft grandeur of the figure which was the lodestar of all their emotions, the virginal purity of the whole. And when she fancied that she traced in those bland aquiline lineaments, and in the crisp ringlets which floated like a cloud down to the knees of the figure, some traces of her own likeness, a dream of a new destiny flitted before her, she blushed to her very neck; and as she bent her face over the drawing and gazed, her whole soul seemed to rise into her eyes, and a single tear dropped upon the paper. She laid her hand over it and then turned hastily away. “‘You do not like it? I have been too bold,’ said Lancelot, fearfully. “‘Oh, no, no! It is so beautiful, so full of deep wisdom! But—but—You may leave it.’ “Lancelot slipped silently out of the room, he hardly knew why; and when he was gone, Argemone caught up the drawing, pressed it to her bosom, covered it with kisses, and hid it, as too precious for any eyes but her own, in the furthest corner of her secrétaire. “And yet she fancied that she was not in love!” [Ch. x.] “‘Argemone! speak; tell me, if you will, to go forever; but tell me first the truth. You love me!’