for her sake, and have been guilty of treason to holy love by degrading its perfect idea to the level of the actual; and with her whole spirit she prayed that, for a single moment, she might satisfy his highest and deepest conception.  Longer than one moment she well knew it could not be; for his spirit was ever on the march, ever ascending, and each instant required something that was beyond the scope of the instant before.

The sound of her husband’s footsteps aroused her.  He bore a crystal goblet containing a liquor colorless as water, but bright enough to be the draught of immortality.  Aylmer was pale; but it seemed rather the consequence of a highly wrought state of mind and tension of spirit than of fear or doubt.

“The concoction of the draught has been perfect,” said he, in answer to Georgiana’s look.  “Unless all my science have deceived me, it cannot fail.”

“Save on your account, my dearest Aylmer,” observed his wife, “I might wish to put off this birthmark of mortality by relinquishing mortality itself in preference to any other mode.  Life is but a sad possession to those who have attained precisely the degree of moral advancement at which I stand.  Were I weaker and blinder, it might be happiness.  Were I stronger, it might be endured hopefully.  But, being what I find myself, methinks I am of all mortals the most fit to die.”

“You are fit for heaven without tasting death!” replied her husband.  “But why do we speak of dying?  The draught cannot fail.  Behold its effect upon this plant.”

On the window-seat there stood a geranium diseased with yellow blotches which had overspread all its leaves.  Aylmer poured a small quantity of the liquid upon the soil in which it grew.  In a little time, when the roots of the plant had taken up the moisture, the unsightly blotches began to be extinguished in a living verdure.

“There needed no proof,” said Georgiana, quietly.  “Give me the goblet.  I joyfully stake all upon your word.”

“Drink, then, thou lofty creature!” exclaimed Aylmer, with fervid admiration.  “There is no taint of imperfection on thy spirit.  Thy sensible frame, too, shall soon be all perfect.”

She quaffed the liquid and returned the goblet to his hand.

“It is grateful,” said she, with a placid smile.  “Methinks it is like water from a heavenly fountain; for it contains I know not what of unobtrusive fragrance and deliciousness.  It allays a feverish thirst that had parched me for many days.  Now, dearest, let me sleep.  My earthly senses are closing over my spirit like the leaves around the heart of a rose at sunset.”