I knew it.

It is so often the man.
When we had finished dinner and had gone out to sit in the cool shadows of the piazza, I let my gaze rest as often as I might upon the fair face of that young girl.

Several times her eyes met mine, but their lids never drooped, their tender light did not brighten.

I felt that she was so truly glad to see me that her pleasure in the meeting was not affected one way or the other by the slight incident of my looking at her.
If ever a countenance told of innocence, purity, and truth, her countenance told of them.

I believe that if she had thought it pleased me to look at her, it would have pleased her to know that it gave me pleasure.
As I talked with her and looked at her, and as I looked at her mother and talked with her, it was impressed upon me that if there is one thing in this world which is better than all else, it is peace, that peace which comprises so many forms of happiness and deep content.
That the thoughts which came to me could come to a heart so lacerated, so torn, so full of pain as mine had been that morning, seemed wonderful, and yet they came.
Once or twice I tried to banish these thoughts.