--We should have smiled then at
the thought of any thing in height or depth, ending, what through each
instant seemed to breathe eternity from its own essence;--we were one,
_one,_--that trite word makes no meaning in your ear.--to me, life's
roses burst from it; music, sunshine, Araby, should image what it means;
what it meant rather, for it is over.
_Andre_. What was it, Maitland?
_Mail_. Oh,--well,--she did not love me; that was all. So far my story
has told the seeming only, but ere long the trial came, and then I found
it _was_ seeming, in good sooth. The Rebellion had then long been
maturing, as you know; but just then came the crisis. It was the one
theme everywhere. Of course I took my king's part against these rebels,
and at once I was outraged, wronged beyond all human bearing. Her mad
brother, her's, _her's_ what a world of preciousness, Andre, that little
word once enshrined for me; and still it seems like some broken vase,
fragrant with what it held.
_Andre_. And ever with that name, a rosy flash Paints, for an instant,
all my world. Nay, 'tis a little love-poem of my own; go on, Maitland.
_Mait_.
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