"Then it must necessarily be a love song," said I; "youth and spring being the best adapted to inspire the joyousness of love."
"Call not love joyous, Geoffrey; it is a sad and fearful thing to love. Love that is sincere is a hidden emotion of the heart; it shrinks from vain laughter, and is most eloquent when silent, or only revealed by tears."
I started, and turned an anxious gaze upon her pale, spiritual face.
What right had I to be jealous of her? I who was devoted to another. Yet jealous I was, and answered rather pettishly:
"You talk feelingly, fair cousin, as if you had experienced the passion you describe. Have you tasted the bitter sadness of disappointed love?"
"I did not say that." And she blushed deeply. "You chose to infer it."
I did not reply. The image of Harrison rose in my mind. For the first time I saw a strong likeness between them. Such a likeness as is often found between persons who strongly assimilate—whose feelings, tastes, and pursuits are the same.
Was it possible that she had loved him? I was anxious to find out if my suspicions were true; and without any prelude or apology commenced singing a little air that Harrison had taught me, both music and words being his own.
SONG.
I loved you long and tenderly,