He laughed gayly.
"As though you could separate the two, mother. My love is all poetry, my poetry all love."
She laid her hand on the fair clustering brow.
"I am afraid that your love is your religion, too," she said.
"I am so happy, mother! What have I done that I should win the love of that pure, young heart? Do not say that I have no religion. I feel that I could kneel all night and thank Heaven for the treasure it has sent me. I shall be a thousand times better man for my love."
But Mrs. Moray was not to be convinced. She did not see Doris with the eyes of her son; she saw the girl's faults more plainly than her virtues—her coquetry, her vanity, her pride; whereas Earle saw only that she was exceedingly beautiful, and that he loved her better than he loved his life.
"It is a terrible thing," said Mrs. Moray, slowly, "for a man to give his whole heart into the hands of a creature as you have done, Earle. Why, what would become of you if you were to lose Doris, or anything happen to interfere with your love to separate you?"
She was startled at the expression of his face; he turned to her quickly.
"Do not say anything of that kind to me, mother; the bare idea of it drives me mad! What would the reality do?"
"It is not right, Earle, to love any one after such a fashion."