gathering, and the storm that is about to burst. And this interval is not
without its fleeting gleam of quiet and holy sunshine.

It was Madeline's first absence from her lover since their vows had
plighted them to each other; and that first absence, when softened by so
many hopes as smiled upon her, is perhaps one of the most touching
passages in the history of a woman's love. It is marvellous how many
things, unheeded before, suddenly become dear. She then feels what a
power of consecration there was in the mere presence of the one beloved;
the spot he touched, the book he read, have become a part of him--are no
longer inanimate--are inspired, and have a being and a voice. And the
heart, too, soothed in discovering so many new treasures, and opening so
delightful a world of memory, is not yet acquainted with that weariness--
that sense of exhaustion and solitude which are the true pains of
absence, and belong to the absence not of hope but regret.

"You are cheerful, dear Madeline," said Ellinor, "though you did not
think it possible, and he not here!"

"I am occupied," replied Madeline, "in discovering how much I loved him."

We do wrong when we censure a certain exaggeration in the sentiments of
those who love. True passion is necessarily heightened by its very ardour
to an elevation that seems extravagant only to those who cannot feel it.
The lofty language of a hero is a part of his character; without that
largeness of idea he had not been a hero. With love, it is the same as
with glory: what common minds would call natural in sentiment, merely
because it is homely, is not natural, except to tamed affections. That is
a very poor, nay, a very coarse, love, in which the imagination makes not
the greater part. And the Frenchman, who censured the love of his