They were standing together in the balcony.  The beams of the summer moon rested upon the upturned brow of the young enthusiast, and filled her eyes with a holy fire, and the words of love that had trembled upon Anthony’s lips were dismissed from his thoughts as light and vain.  She looked too pure to address to her, at such a moment, the wild outpourings of human passion.

Godfrey’s flute sounded beneath the balcony.  He played one of Juliet’s favorite songs.  She turned to her lover and said, with a lively air, “Is not the musician an enthusiast—­is not the language in which he breathes his soul the poetry of sound?”

“Then what is love?” and Anthony tried to detain the small, white hand she had placed upon his arm.

“I dare not attempt to analyse it;” and Juliet blushed deeply as she spoke.  “Beautiful when worshipped at a distance, it becomes too much the necessity of our nature when brought too near.  Oh, if it would never bend its wings to earth, and ever speak in the language of music and poetry, this world would be too dark for so heavenly a visitant, and we should long for death to unclose the portals of the skies.”

“Still, dearest Juliet, much quiet happiness may be realized on earth.”

“But think of its duration—­how short—­what sorrows are crowded into the shortest life!  To love, and to lose the beloved—­how dreadful!  My mother—­my angel mother—­at her death, my heart became a funeral urn, in which all sad and holy memories were enshrined.  Oh, ’tis a fearful thing to love and lose!  Better far to keep the heart fancy-free, than to find it the grave of hope.”

“And will you never consent to love, Juliet?”

“Can you teach me how to resist its power?” said Juliet, with simplicity.  “We love against our own will; we call reason to our aid, and reason laughs at us.  We strive to forget; but memory, like hope, though it cheats us, will not in turn be cheated; one holds the keys of the future, the other unlocks the treasures of the past.  When we cease to hope, memory may cease to recall what were once the offsprings of hope.  Both accompany us through life, and will, I believe, survive the grave.”

“And will you allow me, Juliet, to entertain the blessed hope—?”

At this moment the lovers were interrupted by the eternal old pest, as Godfrey very unceremoniously called Miss Dorothy.

“Really, Miss Whitmore, I wonder at your standing out here, in the damp night air, without your shawl and bonnet, and the dew falling so fast.  I wish you would learn a little more prudence; it would save me a great deal of trouble.”

“Alas,” whispered Juliet, as Anthony led her back into the drawing-room, “how quickly the vulgarity of common-place banishes the beauty of the ideal!”