They parted at last not far from Anna’s dwelling. Her hand was in his for an instant; her eyes met his ardent glance as he whispered farewell; and warm, red blushes dried up the tears that had been upon her cheek. “I will see you again—I must see you again,” he said, while her hand trembled in his; “without that hope, I should not care to live.” These words, sincere and impassioned, were enough to flood her face with blushes, and set her to wondering why the heart that had seemed so heavy, rose and throbbed like a nightingale startled on its nest by the song of some kindred bird. With a light step and beaming face, the young creature turned into the dark paths of her every-day life, and climbed the stairs which led to her garret-home, lightly as angels tread a rainbow. The old lady looked up when she saw her grandchild coming, and smiled meekly, feeling that she would need such comfort; but she was surprised when Anna smiled back, and, taking off her bonnet, turned a face that was almost radiant upon her. “What is it, love? What has happened, that you should look so bright, so happy?” “Happy? Am I happy, grandmother? No, no! It was but last night I told you that nothing on earth could ever make me happy, now that he was dead.” “Yes, child; but God does not permit eternal grief to the young.” “Grandmother,” said Anna, leaning over the old woman’s chair, that her face might not be seen, “have you not always told me that God is love?” “Yes, darling, God _is_ love.” “Then, grandmother, all love must be divine—born of heaven?” “Yes, child, all love is born of heaven.” “Grandmother?” “Well, my dear.” “Did any one ever love you?” The old lady’s hands fell into her lap, and clasped themselves tightly. “I—I thought so once,” she said, in a low voice. “Yes, I thought so.” “Did you ever love any one, dear grandmother?” “Did I ever love any one? God help me, yes, I have; I——” Anna flung herself on her knees before the old woman, struck to the heart by her own cruelty. The poor old lady was trembling from head to foot; her lips quivered like those of a grieved child; her heart was troubled as the earth stirs when a lily has been torn up by the root. “Oh, grandmother, forgive me!” cried the young girl; “I did not mean it. Can love last so long? Is it rooted so deep in the life?” A quivering smile stole over that gentle face. “Do you think that love is only given to the young? That it is mortal like the body? That it leaves the soul because bright hair turns to silver on the head? No, no, my child! Love is the one passion which time deepens holily, but cannot kill. The soul, when it seeks eternity, carries that with it. There is no real life to the woman that does not love.” “Oh, grandmother! how solemnly you speak.” “The love of an old woman is always solemn.” “And of a young woman—what is that grandmother?”