“Come Veronica,” he whispered, “give me yourself.  I love you, Veronica.”

He sank down before her; she clasped her hands round his head, and kissed his hair.

“I know it,” she said, in a clear voice.

I shut the door softly, thinking of the Wandering Jew, went upstairs, humming a little air between my teeth, and came down again into the dining-room, which was in a blaze of light.

“What preserves are these, Temperance?” I asked, going to the table.  “Some of Abram’s quinces?”

“Best you ever tasted, since you were born.”

“Call Mr. Somers, Fanny,” said mother.  “Is Verry in the parlor, too?”

“I’ll call them,” I said; “I have left my handkerchief there.”

“Is anything else of yours there?” said Fanny, close to my ear.

Ben had pushed back the curtain, and was staring into the darkness; Veronica was walking to and fro on the rug.

“Haven’t I a great musical talent?” I inquired.

“Am I happy?” she asked, coming toward me.

Ben turned to speak, but Veronica put her hand over his mouth, and said: 

“Why should I be ‘hushed,’ my darling?”

“Come to supper, and be sensible,” I urged.

The light revealed a new expression in Verry’s face—­an unsettled, dispossessed look; her brows were knitted, yet she smiled over and over again, while she seemed hardly aware that she was eating like an ordinary mortal.  The imp Fanny tried experiments with her, by offering the same dishes repeatedly, till her plate was piled high with food she did not taste.

The next day was clear, and mild with spring.  Ben and I started for a walk on the shore.  We were half-way to the lighthouse before he asked why it was that Veronica would not come with us.

“She never walks by the shore; she detests the sea.”

“Is it so?  I did not know that.”

“Do you mind that you know few of her tastes or habits?  I speak of this as a general truth.”

“I am a spectacle to you, I suppose.  But this sea charms me; I shall live by it, and build a house with all the windows and doors toward it.”

“Not if you mean to have Verry in it.”

“I do mean to have her in it.  She shall like it.  Are you willing to have me for a brother?  Will you go to Belem, and help break the ice? She could never go,” and he began to skip pebbles in the water.

“I will take you for a brother gladly.  You are a fool—­not for loving her, but all men are fools when in love, they are so besotted with themselves.  But I am afraid of one fault in you.”

“Yes,” he answered hurriedly, “don’t I know?  On my honor, I have tried; why not leave me to God?  Didn’t you leave yourself that way once?”

“Oh, you are cruel.”

“Pardon me, dear Cass.  I must do well now, surely.  Will you believe in me?  Oh, do you not know the strength, the power, that comes to us in the stress of passion and duty?”