and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman in its depth and absorbing energy.  The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself.  We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man’s ultimate control over nature.  He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies ever to be weaned from them by any second passion.  His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science and uniting the strength of the latter to its own.

Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral.  One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke.

“Georgiana,” said he, “has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?”

“No, indeed,” said she, smiling; but, perceiving the seriousness of his manner, she blushed deeply.  “To tell you the truth, it has been so often called a charm, that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so.”

“Ah, upon another face perhaps it might,” replied her husband; “but never on yours.  No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection.”

“Shocks you, my husband!” cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears.  “Then why did you take me from my mother’s side?  You cannot love what shocks you!”

To explain this conversation, it must be mentioned that in the centre of Georgiana’s left cheek there was a singular mark, deeply interwoven, as it were, with the texture and substance of her face.  In the usual state of her complexion,—­a healthy though delicate bloom,—­the mark wore a tint of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined its shape amid the surrounding rosiness.  When she blushed it gradually became more indistinct, and finally vanished amid the triumphant rush of blood that bathed the whole cheek with its brilliant glow.  But if any shifting emotion caused her to turn pale there was the mark again, a crimson stain upon the snow, in what Aylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful distinctness.  Its shape bore not a little similarity to the human hand, though of the smallest pygmy size.  Georgiana’s lovers were wont to say that some fairy at her birth hour had laid her tiny hand upon