And truly his preference was not an unnatural one. The old parlour presented a most attractive aspect. The great log which had been burning on the broad hearth had now fallen into glowing fragments, over which small yellow and bluish flames danced intermittently. Everything was warm, home-like, and familiar. Out of doors the stars shone crisp and white, and the snow glistened pure as a maiden’s soul. But ah! it was so terribly cold; the beauty of the prospect could be enjoyed much better from the genial vantage-ground of the hearthstone.
“If that is your decision, you must abide by it,” said the guest, and something in the words, and in the manner they were uttered, awed Eros for the moment. Then, turning to Psyche, he continued: “But even your Eros cannot choose for you. What is your preference? Are you, too, willing to postpone Paradise for the fireside?”
Psyche was naturally more imaginative than most young girls, and possibly there was something in the shadowy mystery of the hour, and in her own physical and mental condition, that wrought upon her mood. A creeping languor and a chill which the heat of the embers could not counteract were gaining possession of her, and filling her brain with weird fancies. Insensibly, he who sat beside her, and whose icy lips she had felt upon her brow, had become clothed to her apprehension with an unearthly, superhuman personality. No man was he, but an angel of tender and mighty sway, stooping from heaven on the eve of Christmas, to hold high argument with two mortal lovers on those questions which most nearly concern their welfare. As she spoke her voice sounded faint and ethereal, while her eyes sought to penetrate the shadow which had fallen over the face of Eros.
“It is pleasant here,” she said; “yet if, in Paradise, our union may be eternal and secure, it is surely better to be there.”
“You will meet Eros where we are going,” returned the strange friend, gently, taking her hand in his own. “If not this Eros whom you have known here, then another and a worthier one than he.”
“Oh, not another,” whispered Psyche, entreatingly; “it must be this Eros—my own dear Eros whom I have always loved. I have lived with him, and our hearts are grown together. He is better and nobler than he seems.”
“It is not for me to decide,” was the answer. “But do you speak to him, Psyche. If he loves you, he will lay your words to heart.”
Psyche rose from her chair, and, stepping somewhat feebly, crossed to where Eros sat, and stood before him, her hands clasped. The room had become more dusky, so that the three figures appeared rather like shadows than beings of flesh and blood. For a moment or two there was silence, and only Psyche’s beseeching attitude seemed to speak.
“Eros,” she said at length, “I feel that I must go—I must go with this friend of ours. Do you know him, Eros? He is your friend as well as mine. You might have gone with us; but that was not to be. We shall not know marriage here, and we shall seem to be separated for a time. But if your love for me has been as great as mine for you, the memory of it, and the faith in what is to come, will heal the worst of the parting. Oh, my love, say it shall be so!”