"That is true, I suspect, of many things in life. To feel their full sweetness, one must get a little out of their immediate sphere."
"Is that true of persons, also?" she asked, with a keen glance.
Some moments elapsed before Bergan could answer. Compelled by the question to make a sudden, rapid investigation into the deeper things of the heart, he was confounded at the unexpected result. Too truthful, however, to attempt to hide it, he finally answered, thoughtfully;—
"In some measure, I think it is. Miss Thane, did you ever experience quite that deep delight in the presence of a friend, which you sometimes (please remember, I say only, sometimes) derive from the thought of him or her in absence?"
She did not answer the question. She only said, in a tone of cool irony;—"You do not flatter your friends, Mr. Arling." But in another moment, she exclaimed, with a sudden, startling intensity of passion and longing;—"Is there, then, nothing,—neither love, nor friendship,—absolutely nothing, which answers expectation, and satisfies desire? Horrible, horrible thought!"
"I do not think so," replied Bergan, gently; "though I confess that I was troubled, at first, by the necessity of answering your question as I did. But I now recognize the fact thus revealed to me as very satisfactory evidence that our affections, our friendships, are to know a richer and lovelier development than they can ever attain to on this earth. In heaven there must be room for every lofty ideal."
Then, with a sudden deep intuition of the real necessities of the soul beside him, he went on to say;—"Yet there, as here, I suppose, the one satisfying, completing thing will be the love of God. The soul was made to look up, not along a level; it can only find its highest joy in something superior to itself."
She turned, and looked him intently in the face.
"Do you believe what you say?" she asked, doubtfully.
Very solemnly Bergan answered;—"I do."