she might think without eyes upon her.

Scene after scene of her life came back as she searched to find some
circumstance associated with that face. Once and again she seemed on the
point of laying hold of something, when the face itself vanished and she
had that to recall, and the search to resume from the beginning. In the
process many painful memories arose, some, connected with her mother,
unhappy in themselves, others, connected with her father, grown unhappy
from her marriage; for thereby she had built a wall between her thoughts
and her memories of him; and, if there should be a life beyond this, had
hollowed a gulf between them forever.

Gradually her thoughts took another direction.--Could it be that already
the glamour had begun to disperse, the roses of love to wither, the
magic to lose its force, the common look of things to return? Paul was
as kind, as courteous, as considerate as ever, and yet there was a
difference. Her heart did not grow wild, her blood did not rush to her
face, when she heard the sound of his horse's hoofs in the street,
though she knew them instantly. Sadder and sadder grew her thoughts as
she walked along, careless whither.

Had she begun to cease loving? No. She loved better than she knew, but
she must love infinitely better yet. The first glow was gone--already:
she had thought it would not go, and was miserable. She recalled that
even her honeymoon had a little disappointed her. I would not be
mistaken as implying that any of these her reflections had their origin
in what was _peculiar_ in the character, outlook, or speculation of
herself or her husband. The passion of love is but the vestibule--the
pylon--to the temple of love. A garden lies between the pylon and the
adytum. They that will enter the sanctuary must walk through the garden.