But the effect on Hugh was different from what the ordinary reader of human nature might anticipate.  Instead of being torn in pieces by storms of jealousy, all the summer growths of his love were chilled by an absolute frost of death.  A kind of annihilation sank upon the image of Euphra.  There had been no such Euphra.  She had been but a creation of his own brain.  It was not so much that he ceased to love, as that the being beloved —­ not died, but —­ ceased to exist.  There were moments in which he seemed to love her still with a wild outcry of passion; but the frenzy soon vanished in the selfish feeling of his own loss.  His love was not a high one —­ not such as thine, my Falconer.  Thine was love indeed; though its tale is too good to tell, simply because it is too good to be believed; and we do men a wrong sometimes when we tell them more than they can receive.

Thought, Speculation, Suggestion, crowded upon each other, till at length his mind sank passive, and served only as the lists in which the antagonist thoughts fought a confused battle without herald or umpire.

But it is amazing to think how soon he began to look back upon his former fascination with a kind of wondering unbelief.  This bespoke the strength of Hugh’s ideal sense, as well as the weakness of his actual love.  He could hardly even recall the feelings with which, on some well-remembered occasion, he had regarded her, and which then it had seemed impossible he should ever forget.  Had he discovered the cloven foot of a demon under those trailing garments —­ he could hardly have ceased to love her more suddenly or entirely.  But there is an aching that is worse to bear than pain.

I trust my reader will not judge very hardly of Hugh, because of the change which had thus suddenly passed upon his feelings.  He felt now just as he had felt on waking in the morning and finding that he had been in love with a dream-lady all the night:  it had been very delightful, and it was sad that it was all gone, and could come back no more.  But the wonder to me is, not that some loves will not stand the test of absence, but that, their nature being what it is, they should outlast one week of familiar intercourse.

He mourned bitterly over the loss of those feelings, for they had been precious to him.  But could he help it?  Indeed he could not; for his love had been fascination; and the fascination having ceased, the love was gone.

I believe some of my readers will not need this apology for Hugh; but will rather admire the facility with which he rose above a misplaced passion, and dismissed its object.  So do not I. It came of his having never loved.  Had he really loved Euphra, herself, her own self, the living woman who looked at him out of those eyes, out of that face, such pity would have blended with the love as would have made it greater, and permitted no indignation to overwhelm it.  As it was, he was utterly passive and helpless in the