What change was this which Myrtle had undergone since love had touched her heart, and her visions of worldly enjoyment had faded before the thought of sharing and ennobling the life of one who was worthy of her best affections,—­of living for another, and of finding her own noblest self in that divine office of woman?  She had laid aside the bracelet which she had so long worn as a kind of charm as well as an ornament.  One would have said her features had lost something of that look of imperious beauty which had added to her resemblance to the dead woman whose glowing portrait hung upon her wall.  And if it could be that, after so many generations, the blood of her who had died for her faith could show in her descendants veins, and the soul of that elect lady of her race look out from her far-removed offspring’s dark eyes, such a transfusion of the martyr’s life and spiritual being might well seem to manifest itself in Myrtle Hazard.

The large-hearted old man forgot his scholastic theory of human nature as he looked upon her face.  He thought he saw in her the dawning of that grace which some are born with; which some, like Myrtle, only reach through many trials and dangers; which some seem to show for a while and then lose; which too many never reach while they wear the robes of earth, but which speaks of the kingdom of heaven already begun in the heart of a child of earth.  He told her simply the story of the occurrences which had brought them together in the old house, with the message the lawyer was to deliver to its inmates.  He wished to prepare her for what might have been too sudden a surprise.

But Myrtle was not wholly unprepared for some such revelation.  There was little danger that any such announcement would throw her mind from its balance after the inward conflict through which she had been passing.  For her lover had left her almost as soon as he had told her the story of his passion, and the relation in which he stood to her.  He, too, had gone to answer his country’s call to her children, not driven away by crime and shame and despair, but quitting all—­his new-born happiness, the art in which he was an enthusiast, his prospects of success and honor—­to obey the higher command of duty.  War was to him, as to so many of the noble youth who went forth, only organized barbarism, hateful but for the sacred cause which alone redeemed it from the curse that blasted the first murderer.  God only knew the sacrifice such young men as he made.

How brief Myrtle’s dream had been!  She almost doubted, at some moments, whether she would not awake from it, as from her other visions, and find it all unreal.  There was no need of fearing any undue excitement of her mind after the alternations of feeling she had just experienced.  Nothing seemed of much moment to her which could come from without,—­her real world was within, and the light of its day and the breath of its life came from her love, made holy by the self-forgetfulness on both sides which was born with it.