"There is a quiet and
deep strength--not demonstrative--that is better than any passion: it is
less striking, I suppose, but it recognizes more a Power greater than
any we have."
"It's true--what you say always is true!" responded Bressant, throwing
himself back in the seat. "Sophie," he added, without turning his eyes
upon her, "if I shouldn't turn out all you wish, you won't stop loving
me?"
"I couldn't, I think, if I tried," replied she; and there was more of
regret than of satisfaction in her tone as she said it. "Or, if I could,
it would tear me all to pieces; and there would be nothing left but my
love to God, which is His already. All of me, except that, is love for
you."
"God and heaven seem unreal--unsubstantial, at any rate--compared with
you," said Bressant, striking his hand heavily upon the arm of the
rustic bench. "My love for you is greater than for them!"
"Oh, stop! hush!" cried Sophie, flinching back as if she had received a
mortal thrust. The light of indignation and repulse in her gray eyes was
awful to Bressant, and his own dropped beneath it. "Have you no respect
for your soul?" she continued, presently. "How long would such love
last? in what would it end? it would not be love--it would be the
deadliest kind of hate.
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