Gabrielle was intoxicated with the passion of her own heart, without an object or an aim; her throat was almost choked with youth’s sweet, innocent desire; and, ever, within her shaking heart, the questioning wonder grew.
“Mother,” she said wistfully, “what is it fills the world with music day and night? What is it makes the whole world sing?”
“Happiness,” replied Margot, “and joy of the spring.”
“Happiness?” rejoined Gabrielle. “If it be happiness, why does it make my heart ache? Why does spring hurt me so?”
Margot, startled, sat staring, wrung with sudden fear.
“And what is this love of which every one sings—we women most of all?”
“The source of all wretchedness. Leave it alone!” cried Margot. She looked at her daughter in terror.
“But,” replied Gabrielle, wondering, “if love be the source of all wretchedness, why is it’s song so sweet?”
“Because fools have their folly!” cried Margot. “Love-songs are sweet to a lover, as folly is dear to a fool. Worship thy God,” she said harshly, “and leave foolishness to the fool!”
“Love—foolishness?” said Gabrielle, puzzled. “You told me that God is love!” She turned the riddle over and over in her mind.