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These are but the harsh outlines of what, so far, he wrote; but there
was a feeling in it--a touch of gladness and of pathos here and
there--that had never before been in any of his writing, and of which he
was himself unconscious.
But at this point he paused, and his breathing grew quick. It was so
difficult to write in these measured terms. When he resumed, he wrote
more rapidly.
What wonder, he made bold to ask her, if amidst all this bewildering
change some still stranger dream of what might be possible in the future
should have taken possession of him? She and he were leagued in sympathy
as regarded the chief object of their lives; it was her voice that had
inspired him; might he not hope that they should go forward together, in
close friendship at least, if there could be nothing more? And as to
that something more, was there no hope? He could give himself no grounds
for any such hope; and yet--so much had happened to him, and mostly
through her, that he could set no limit to the possibilities of
happiness that lay in her generous hands.


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