"And who may Reuben be?"
"My cousin, my aunt's son; but he is no Quaker. He belongs to one of those old, rigid, cruel sects which have been perpetuated in shadow since the days of the Puritans. He is a fanatic; it would rejoice his heart to plunge into a sea of papist blood; meanwhile he torments me."
"Perhaps he loves you?"
"Yes, according to his light, which surely is not a fair light."
"And what is the proper method of loving?"
The girl burst into a coquettish laugh.
"You ask me more than I can tell, Sir Joshua."
"Indeed? Pray how, then, can one who is ignorant of the sentiment impart its faithful presentment to others? How can she communicate an emotion which finds no echo in her own soul? Who has the ability to teach her to invest her voice, her gestures, her glance, her very smile, with the woes and joys of love?"
That name, cast haphazard into their conversation, caused a divergence.