too deep for reality, and she was conscious that in everything it was far beyond the love she could give him in return. This grave, lonely, middle-aged man inspired her with respect, esteem, and a feeling that was full of gratitude, but not with the passion of love. The latter she knew, for it was still in her heart for the dead man whose life had been so full of tragedy. There was nothing of its full pulsations, its sweet emotions, its unashamed desire, in the feeling that she had for the man whom she was now to marry. Because of its absence she felt afraid.
Hepworth was also afraid because of his love, but his fear sprang from a different feeling. Once he had spoken of it to Elisabeth as they walked homeward one summer night from a distant village. He had been silent for some time, and she had asked him, half-playfully, of what he thought. He stopped and looked at her.
"Elisabeth," he said, taking her hand within his own, "do you know that I love you so much that I am afraid."
