When he had stood remote, the object of such an impassioned, and to her, hitherto, such an unknown love, which transformed him and everything about him, and imparted to him such an almost unbearable charm—­a power to draw her nearer and nearer without knowing it, or wanting her at all—­she had felt that she could die for him, but she had not hoped to live for him, and spend a happy life at his side.

She did not hope it yet, she only felt that a blissful possibility was thrown down before her, and she might take it up if she could.

She knew that this strange absorbing love, which, like some splendid flower, had opened out in her path, was the one supreme blossom of her life—­that life which is all too short for the unfolding of another such.  But the last few hours had taught her something more, it was now just possible that he might pretend to gather this flower—­he had something to learn then before he could wear it, he must love her, or she felt that her own love would break her heart.

Emily had not one of those poverty-stricken natures which are never glad excepting for some special reason drawing them above themselves.  She was naturally joyous and happy, unless under the pressure of an active sorrow that shaded her sky and quenched her sunshine.  She lived in an elevated region full of love and wonder, taking kindly alike to reverence and to hope; but she was seldom excited, her feelings were not shallow enough to be easily troubled with excitement, or made fitful with agitation.

There was in her nature a suave harmony, a sweet and gracious calm, which love itself did not so much disturb as enrich and change,—­love which had been born in the sacred loneliness of sorrow,—­complicated with tender longing towards little children, nourished in silence, with beautiful shame and pride, and impassioned fear.

Yet it was necessary to her, even in all withdrawal from its object, even though it should be denied all expression for ever—­necessary to the life that it troubled and raised, and enriched, with a vision of withheld completeness that was dimmed by the tears of her half “divine despair.”

She rose and held out her hand, and when he smiled with a certain air of embarrassment, she did also.  She observed that he was sensitive about the ridiculous affair which had led to his turning out his household, besides this early call made her feel, but not in a way to discompose her as if she were taken into the number of those ladies, among whom he meant to make his selection.  Yes, it was as she had hoped.  It warmed her to the heart to see it, but not the less was she aware of the ridiculous side of it.  A vision of long-sustained conversations, set calls, and careful observations in various houses rose up before her; it was not in her nature to be unamused at the peculiar position that he had confessed to—­“he had not decided on the lady.”  She felt that she knew more of this than he supposed, and his embarrassment making her quite at her ease, the smiles kept peeping out as with her natural grace she began to talk to him.