eager face, her whole soul so alive to help him in however humble a way,
her whole life his, his, his,--such love seemed almost tragic in its
very beauty and joy. It was so irremediably--love. At times he almost
trembled before it. He would almost chide her with its divine
completeness.

What if he were to be taken from her? Oughtn't she to keep just a little
of herself for foothold? We ought all to belong to ourselves as well as
to another. It was such a risk. Suppose he were to die, Jenny!

No doubt it was very wise, but Jenny was wiser. She could never belong
to herself again. She was his, and his only, for ever; and if he
died--if he were to be taken away ...

But he could never be taken from her any other way? No one else, nothing
but death, could take him ...

"No, nothing but death--and perhaps not even death."

"You are sure, darling? O, you are quite, quite sure?"

"Sure from my soul, little child. Look in it and see."

A lover's eyes are his soul.

Yes, Theophil loved Jenny, loved her even more with her own dependence
on love than he knew of. He was, the reader need scarcely be told, an
almost wildly ambitious man, and a few months ago he would have said
that there was nothing which was more to him than the expression of the
power that was in him. But there was something that was even more to him