"And was happy?"
"Blest—so the tale has it; and never looked back to the 'Mare au Diable' without a feeling of gratitude. Here we are at the pond, Lady Dora. I wonder where Lord Randolph is!"
"I cannot think love so hastily created," she said, not attending to his other words; "'tis of slower growth."
"Growth! yes; but I tried to give you the author's idea. They, unacknowledged, loved one another a long time, and a word opened their eyes to the truth."
"There are few who make sacrifices for love," she replied, "and such, when made, are seldom appreciated."
"Pardon me, we differ. When truly made, from sincere affection, we bow down in almost adoration of the giver—'tis so sweet to give! The heart feels so light when it has yielded all its store; buoyant and healthful, it only grieves at its own poverty and ungathering powers; for it would fain, like a bee, renew the sweet store, to carry all home to one hive."
"How may we know such a gift would be prized?"
"By reading in a never closed page, by the eyes writ; but some do not love making sacrifices,—they cost dear."
She felt, if this subject were continued in this strain, her courage would fail her. "Not yet!" she thought; "he shall suffer for all I felt the day he quitted me so abruptly."
"Sacrifices are foolish things," she said aloud; "good for boys and girls—men do not value them; they are like water poured on the ground."