"But for any more ardent love,—that, I told him, was buried in the grave with you."
She was silent for a moment, and then went on.
"It will not be wise, or right, for us to see each other often. In time, you will meet some one with whom you can forget the pain of this separation."
Morton shook his head.
"Yes—at least I trust you will. But we can never forget what we have been to each other. Our reality is melted into a dream, but we must not allow it to remain a dream. Let it be to us a fountain of high thoughts, whose streams may water all our lives."
"You are an alchemist, Edith," said Morton; "you have found the secret to change lead and iron into pure gold. And yet you make me feel, more than ever, if that can be, what a crown I have lost."
When Morton left the house, after a half hour's interview, the agitation with which he had entered it had sunk into quiet; for an influence had fallen upon him as soothing and elevating as if he had been listening to the paschal music in the chapel of the choir at St. Peter's. And as an aeronaut, tossed among tempestuous clouds, is borne of a sudden above the turmoil, and floats serene in a calmer sky, so the troubled mind of Morton felt itself buoyed up for a space above the tumult of passionate and bitter thought.
CHAPTER LVI.
| For close designs and crooked counsels fit, Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit.—Dryden. |