‘And you think now, I suppose, that you will dethrone my art. I think not, Jerome,’ she answered, smiling rather proudly.
‘Ah, you challenge me!’ said he, smiling also, rather mournfully. ‘Never forsake your art for me, Sara, for I am not worth it.’
‘You are worthy my best and deepest love, and I shall give it to you,’ she said, almost passionately. ‘Jerome, do not trouble this night with these dark forebodings, and this self-depreciation. It is something new in you. I never imagined you troubled with doubts or difficulties.’
He made no answer, and they sat on thus in silence for a long time, until at last he rose.
‘I must go to Avice,’ he said. ‘Good-night, my love.’
Long after he had gone, Sara sat in her low chair, unseeing the considerate glances cast towards her by Mrs. Nelson. She sat, trying to analyse her own sensations—trying to discover whether the happiness or the trouble at her heart was greatest. Once or twice lately, she had thought that could she but know certainly that he loved her, or did not love her, she would at least have rest in the knowledge. Now, the knowledge was hers—his love was hers. But with love, not calm, but the very reverse, had come.
CHAPTER VIII.
‘CONTENT THEE WITH ONE BITTER WORD,
ADIEU!’
