“The young girl rose upon me like a flame; her very eyes seemed to dart fire; her lips looked like living coals; she was almost appalling in her terrible beauty and superhuman passion. ‘Not love!’ she exclaimed, her every word falling like a burning spark, ‘not love but assimilation! Yet do you suppose if I told my father that my soul had found its mate; my heart its other half; that this, _this_ nature,’ here she struck her breast as she would a stone, ‘had at last found its master; that the wayward spirit of which you have sometimes been afraid, was become a part of another’s life, another’s soul, another’s hope, do you suppose he would listen? Hush!’ she cried, seeing me about to speak. ‘You talk of love, what do you know of it, what does he know of it, who saw his young wife die, yet himself consented to live? Is love a sitting by the fire with hand locked in hand while the winter winds rage and the droning kettle sings? Love is a going through the fire, a braving of the winter winds, a scattering of the soul in sparks that the night and the tempest lick up without putting out the germ of the eternal flame. Love!’ she half laughed; ‘O, it takes a soul that has never squandered its treasure upon every passing beggar, to know how to love! Do you see that star?’ It was night as I have said and we were standing near an open window. ‘It has lost its moorings and is falling; when it descries the ocean it will plunge into it; so with some natures, they soar high and keep their orbit well, till an invisible hand turns them from their course and they fall, to be swallowed up, aye swallowed up, lost and buried in the great sea that has awaited them so long.’ “‘And you love—like this—’ I murmured, quailing before the power of her passion. “‘Would it not be strange if I did not,’ she asked in an altered voice. ‘You say he is everything noble, handsome and attractive.’ “Yes, yes,’ I murmured, ‘but—’ “She did not wait to hear what lay behind that but. Picking up her flowers, she hastily crossed the room. ‘Did my young mother shriek from joy, when my father’s horses ran away with them along that deadly precipice at the side of the Southmore road? To lie for a few maddening moments on the breast of the man you love, earth reeling beneath you, heaven swimming above you, and then with a cry of bliss to fall heart to heart, down the hideous gap of some awful gulf, and be dashed into eternity with the cry still on your lips, that is what I call love and that is what I—’ “She paused, turned upon me the whole splendor of her face, seemed to realize to what an extent her impetuosity had lifted the veil with which she usually shrouded her bitterly suppressed nature, and calming herself with a sudden quick movement, gave me a short mocking courtesy and left the room. “Do you wonder that for half the night I sat up brooding and alive to the faintest sounds!