Margarette's countenance again beamed with pleasure and approbation, as she said—"Moral grandeur, would then be your definition of greatness, Mr. Montague?"
"It would."
"And the only true one, according to my apprehension," said Margarette, "and I have often had the pleasure of seeing it exemplified. And this moral greatness leads to sublimity of thought," she added. "It expands the soul, and elevates the conception. As an instance: I once attended a prayer meeting, where was a man who had no more than ordinary capacity, and who knew nothing beyond the cultivation of his little farm, and the path to heaven. He could scarcely read intelligibly. Being called on to lead in the devotions of the evening, he knelt down, and began in this manner—'O, thou, who lightest up heaven!' To me, it was like a shock of electricity! I have thought of it a thousand times since, and doubt whether Byron, with all his genius, in his happiest moment of poetic inspiration, ever had so sublime a conception."
"Would you like to examine the prints on the centre table, Miss Lansdale?" asked Gordon, rising, and offering her his arm. With a heart buoyant as the thistle's down, Alice accepted the proffered arm, and Montague secured the seat she vacated.
"There is nothing here that you have not seen a hundred times," said Gordon—"but I panted to get into a warmer latitude. The north pole has few charms for me, notwithstanding its brilliant corruscations. By the way, is this cousin of yours ever warmer than the summit of Mont Blanc?"
"Why ask me such a question?" said Alice.
"Because I thought you would be likely to know," answered Gordon.
"She is much admired and beloved," said Alice, with a sigh. "I wish I had her power over the heart!"
"Admired she may be—but beloved is she?" said Gordon.
"You surprise me, Mr. Gordon," said Alice. "I thought—I feared—I mean I conjectured"—and she stopt short.