Books tell us of jealousies and misconstructions, and the necessity of an absence, the sweetness of a quarrel; but we, dearest Albert, have had no experience of these passages in love.

_We_ have never misunderstood each other; _we_ have no reconciliation to look back to.

When was there ever occasion for me to ask forgiveness from you?
Our love is made up only of one memory,--unceasing kindness! A harsh word, a wronging thought, never broke in upon the happiness we have felt and feel." "Dearest Gertrude," said Trevylyan, "that character of our love is caught from you; you, the soft, the gentle, have been its pervading genius; and the well has been smooth and pure, for you were the spirit that lived within its depths." And to such talk succeeded silence still more sweet,--the silence of the hushed and overflowing heart.

The last voices of the birds, the sun slowly sinking in the west, the fragrance of descending dews, filled them with that deep and mysterious sympathy which exists between Love and Nature.
It was after such a silence--a long silence, that seemed but as a moment--that Trevylyan spoke, but Gertrude answered not; and, yearning once more for her sweet voice, he turned and saw that she had fainted away.
This was the first indication of the point to which her increasing debility had arrived.

Trevylyan's heart stood still, and then beat violently; a thousand fears crept over him; he clasped her in his arms, and bore her to the open window.