That heavenly lover in him was able to give none of the comfort of its assurance to the earthly lover.

That the eyes of the spirit could touch her, brought no healing to the eyes that at midnight would look up from the desk in Theophil's study to Jenny's empty chair, no touch of her to the hands that were so idle and empty now.
Yet there were little services these hands might still do for her.
There in her own little room her own books still stood in their places.
These could be taken care of, her little desk could still be kept as she had left it, with her pen laid down as she had last laid it.

There were note-paper and envelopes, and ink and blotting-paper, all ready, if some day, by a miracle--who could tell ?--she might steal into that room and want to leave a message.

There should be fresh flowers for her to find there too if she did come.
And that new edition of Scott which was not finished issuing when she went away, she would find that complete when she came back.

Her little collection of fairy books too--she was sure to glance at that! and then she would find two or three new ones there finer than any of the old ones; alas! so many beautiful books kept coming out now that she had gone.
Yet somehow she might see them, after all, if they were taken softly to that little room and laid on that table altar.