“Ah! Evelyn,” I exclaimed, “_you_ at least have no right to say so—for never was mortal woman more truly, more devotedly loved, than you have been, and still are.” “Why not add,” said she, smiling sadly, “that never has mortal woman made a more ungrateful return? Granted, dear Mentor—and what then?” “What then? What a question!—when you are on the eve of marriage with one who possesses almost every quality you can desire. I say _almost_, for perfection is not to be found here below.” Evelyn was silent for a few moments; then rising, she said, as one inspired, her cheek glowing, her eyes flashing, while her voice trembled with an emotion to which she rarely gave way— “Hear me, Mary. Do not think me insensible. The passion so frequently misnamed love on earth is but its counterfeit. Love, as I understand it, is a spiritual passion—a union of souls—that magnetic or electric affinity which is as irresistible as it is indissoluble; for it makes of two imperfect creatures one perfect being—it replaces the original self with another and dearer self; so that where once all thoughts and feelings culminated in the _ego_, they are now centered in _Tu_. This love knows neither change nor death—nor jealousy, strong as death; for it places implicit trust in the beloved one—and if, by chance, that trust is misplaced—ah! then,” shuddering, and placing her hand on her bosom—“then the fountain of life is quenched, and the world say, ‘Ah! she died of a broken heart.’ But this love,” she continued, pointing to heaven, “is there, and there only. While here, “‘If there be a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness doth lay siege to it, Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, brief as any dream.’ “Such our sad destiny!” Evelyn paused, and, coming close to me, seated herself; and taking my hand, she said, as her eyes slowly filled with tears: “Poor Balzano! would that he had loved you, Mary. You have more heart to bestow than I have. Mine has depths, few—none may ever sound. And now, tell me, candidly, ought I to marry him?” She looked anxiously into my face. I scarcely knew what to reply. The strength of her—what shall I say?—imagination surprised me; or rather, are not the mind’s ideal shapes more _real_ than that which we term reality? Evelyn withdrew her hand, and turned away disappointed. “I feared you would not understand me,” she sighed. “Yes, dear,” I replied. Though your character is a rare one, I can comprehend, and even sympathize with you. Still, it seems to me that you are wilfully throwing away another chance of happiness for a chimera—a visionary bliss you can never hope to realize. You will learn to love Balzano devotedly when you are once his wife—the angel of the sanctuary of his home.”