and my mother's low voice woke me, and I crept to my father's side — close — close, from fear of my own thoughts.
"Ah! sweet and sad was the morrow to that night, when thy lips warned me of the Future. An orphan now — what is there that lives for me to think of, to dream upon, to revere, but thou!
"How tenderly thou hast rebuked me for the grievous wrong that my thoughts did thee! Why should I have shuddered to feel thee glancing upon my thoughts like the beam on the solitary tree, to which thou didst once liken me so well? It was — it was, that, like the tree, I struggled for the light, and the light came. They tell me of love, and my very life of the stage breathes the language of love into my lips, No; again and again, I know that is not the love that I feel for thee! — it is not a passion, it is a thought! I ask not to be loved again. I murmur not that thy words are stern and thy looks are cold. I ask not if I have rivals; I sigh not to be fair in thine eyes. It is my spirit that would blend itself with thine. I would give worlds, though we were apart, though oceans rolled between us, to know the hour in which thy gaze was lifted to the stars — in which thy heart poured itself in prayer. They tell me thou art more beautiful than the marble images, that are fairer than all human forms; but I have never dared to gaze steadfastly on thy face, that memory might compare thee with the rest. Only thine eyes, and thy soft calm smile haunt me; as when I look
