"May you tell them? I should like very much to hear." And as she seemed to bend from a queen into a womanly companion, I noticed my gift, the brooch of Roman mosaic, on her breast. While she listened, for I told her fully the story of my quest for the highest things, its strange solution, and my present purposes, I was surprised to discover that her intelligence was master of the whole without effort. "O, I have often talked philosophy with Mr. Quinet," she explained. Her spiritual eyes glistened with profound beautiful depths as she looked down into the forest-shades before us. A color had suffused itself over her face so lovely that the glorified creature beside me seemed to surpass my intensest ideal. "It _is_ the Voice of the Universe," she said, and her cheeks flushed, "I once heard the Spirit of All, called, 'Heart of Heaven, Heart of Earth,' and I added 'Heart of Man.' Obey it, obey your best thoughts." She looked at me with such a glance of sacred sympathy, that--O joy, the first words filling life with fragrance have been spoken! * * * * * It was short, our sweet bridal and few days of united life, and of bliss at the old chateau d'Esneval. Gravely ill,--worse,--recovering,--then DEAD. O God, was it possible? Yes; I saw her lying amid garlands of evergreens and white robes, in a low-lighted chamber of the chateau, still and transfigured into a changed, unearthly beauty, the alas! so thin lips lightly parted in a smile, the abundant golden hair I used to admire brushed neatly away from her forehead, the darkened eyelids that told of long exhaustion peacefully closed as if on visions of heaven--as if she saw God, being pure in heart. Supernaturally lovely as her soul had been through life the wearied sufferer lay in death, white tuberoses pressing her poor thin cheek--one purity affectionate to another. Ah, it was a vision. I never saw one on whom Heaven loved so constantly to breathe sweetness. Neither health could roughen her beauty nor sickness drive it away: for the soul, after all, will shine through the body, will lift it up, and if glorious will leave it worthy of itself. * * * * * Alas, ungovernable, passionate grief! Alas the sight of heart-broken friends and painful rites of burial, the anguish of bereavement, the irresistible longing to die and be with her;--and Quinet's grief also; for then he had confessed that he had loved her too. * * * * * And now we who knew her recognise that she was sent into this world for a season, and tenderly watched and favored of heaven for high purposes--for the stirring example and strong influence of a short but lofty life.