I love her not for what she is to me, but for what she is in herself, for what she really is, rather than for what she seems,--for the strength and the heroism of her heart, which I see through all the glaring, commonplace faults, which she is at no pains to hide.

Or perhaps I only love her because it was meant that I should.

Be it as it may, I do love her, and as passionately, as entirely, and as hopelessly as it is possible for man to love." "O Denham, Denham, my boy!" Denham laid his hand lightly on his sister's lips.

"Now we have had a sufficiency of heroics for once, indeed for always," he said, with a wholly altered voice.

"Life has enough of solemnity in it and in spare, without our adding aught to it.