“I did not hear you,” she said dreamily, “and yet—I know not why—I was looking for your coming.”
“And what were you thinking of so profoundly, sweet Ulama?”
“I was thinking,” she replied, “how much more beautiful our lake and its surroundings have seemed to me of late. I scarce noticed them before; I suppose because I have known them all my life. Yet, now that you have pointed out some of their beauties, I not only feel and appreciate them, but I note many others on all sides that I never saw before. It is very strange! I wonder why it is?”
“It is love, Ulama,” Leonard said, coming quietly to her side and laying his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Love can make the plainest works of nature beautiful; small wonder then if it makes those that are really so display new and unsuspected charms. It is because love has taken up his dwelling in your heart that you now see new beauties in these familiar scenes.”
But Ulama shook her head sagely, and smilingly made answer,
“You know you told me that the first time you saw our lake you deemed it the fairest spot on all the earth. And you did not know me then, so could not love me. How then can what you say explain it?”
Leonard laughed and took her hand in his.
“You forget that I had seen you in my dreams and had loved you long before,” he said. “Perhaps some instinct told me that here I should find the abode of her who already had my heart. Or, if that explanation does not please you, here is another. Love and sympathy are inseparable; you admire, now, things that you thought little of before, because you see that I admire them.”
“Yes; that may be,” Ulama admitted, with a thoughtful look. “But then, it does not explain why you should see beauties where I did not. I think you must have a quicker appreciation of the beautiful in nature than is given to me.”