He took her hand and drew her down to his side.
"This is as it should be," he said, looking from one to the other with a radiant countenance. "Thus would I ever bind to my heart the two loveliest, dearest, best."
Edith bent her head, and kissed the hand which held hers. As she looked up I saw that her eyes were glistening.
"What would mamma say?" she asked, trying to conceal her emotion. "Surely there can be none dearer and better than she is."
"Nay, Edith," said he, passing his arm tenderly round her waist; "you might as well say, if I singled out two bright, especial stars from the firmament, that I did not think the moon fair or excellent. The love I bear my mother is so exalted by reverence, it stands apart by itself like the queen of night, serene and holy, moving in a distinct and lofty sphere. There is one glory of the sun, Edith, and another glory of the moon, and one star differeth from another in glory. Yet they are all glorious in themselves, and all proclaim the goodness and glory of the Creator."
"I have heard it said," observed Edith, in a low, tremulous tone, "that when love takes possession of the heart, the natural affections have comparatively little strength; that it is to them as is the ocean to its tributaries. I know nothing of it by experience, nor do I wish to, if it has power to diminish the filial and sisterly tenderness which constitutes my chief joy."
"My dear Edith, it is not so. Every pure and generous affection expands the heart, and gives it new capacities for loving. Have you not heard of heaven,—'the more angels the more room?' So it is with the human heart. It is elastic, and enlarges with every lawful claimant to be admitted into its sanctuary. It is true there is a love which admits of no rivalry;" here his eye turned involuntarily to me, "which enshrines but one object, which dwells in the inner temple, the angel of angels. But other affections do not become weaker in consequence of its strength. We may not see the fire-flame burn as brightly when the sun shines upon it, but the flame is burning still."
"Gabriella does not speak," said Edith, with an incredulous wave of her golden locks. "Tell me, Gabriella, are his words true?"
"I am not a very good metaphysician," I answered, "but I should think the heart very narrow, that could accommodate only those whom Nature placed in it. It seems to me but a refined species of selfishness."
The color crimsoned on Edith's fair cheek. I had forgotten what she had said to me of her own exclusive affection. I sympathized so entirely in his sentiments, expressed with such beautiful enthusiasm, I forgot every thing else. The moment I had spoken, memory rebuked my transient oblivion. She must believe it an intentional sarcasm. How could I be so careless of the feelings of one so gentle and so kind?