“Oh, yes; but is this love or pity?”
“Pity is a gentle feeling, but it would not urge one to a sacrifice like that. Love, compassion, sentiment—I do not know what it is; but I solemnly say to you, Mary Derwent, in twenty years I have not felt my heart swell with feelings like these—not even when my own child was first laid in my bosom.”
“It is love!—this is love!” cried Mary, joyfully winding her arms around Catharine Montour’s neck, and laying her cheek close to the proud woman’s face. “I think—I am sure this is love!”
“God knows it is some holy feeling that has overtaken me unawares.”
“Yes, yes; love is a holy feeling!”
“But this is the first time you and I have ever met.”
“Is it? I don’t remember this moment—my thoughts will not take the thing in; but I am sure we shall never be strangers again—that we never were strangers in all our lives. At first I was afraid of you; now I should like to follow after you like a wild bird, that you would feed sometimes with crumbs from your hands, and call me by pretty pet names. I should like, of all things, to watch over you in the night, and keep everything still, that you might dream sweet dreams. That beautiful girl, your daughter, should not care for you more than I. Is not this love, dear lady?”
“It is something very heavenly,” said Catharine Montour. “I dread to have it pass away, and yet it must!”
“Must! And why?”
“Because all things beautiful do pass away—love with the rest, nothing is immortal here.”