“How cruel,” she heard them whisper. “It was for love of Leonore, and she is a stone. She does not feel.”
For many days she struggled with this thought. She did not feel. How could she feel? She began to look for misery that she might weep. She went to the funeral of a child who had died at its mother’s breast. But neither the child in the little white casket, nor the mother, with her streaming hair and wild eyes, could bring tears to Leonore.
One night she sat before the fireplace in her bedroom, staring at the flames. The flickering light fascinated her. For a long time she sat motionless, watching it.
Then, out of the glowing heart of the fire, Donald spoke to her:
“Leonore, you can feel, but you will not.”
She shook her head sadly. “I can not—I can not.”
“The fire—feel!” he cried. “Surely you can feel the fire. Try!”
Obediently, she placed her slim, white hand into the flames.
“You feel? Now you do feel?” he begged her.
“No,” she whispered. “No!”