As she complained to herself of the coldness of the world, she thought that she would not care how cold might be all the world if there might be but one whom she could love, and who would love her.

And him she had loved.

To him, in old days--in days which now seemed to her to be very old--she had made confession of her love.

Old as were those days, it could not be but he should still remember them.

She had loved him, and him only.