and pleasant air, the broad green wheat under, all the blue above, the beauty of the world but fed the flame. So much the more she entered into the loveliness of the day, so much the more grew the desire which was her life.

She had gone out at the dawn that she might grasp it from the sun at his rising, that she might steal from the dewy grass and the fresh leaves, and seize her love from the purple sky. The sun had risen and the morning was opening into day, but she was insatiate, still she wished for more. She had fed herself with the light, and dew, and loveliness of the sunny morn, yet her hunger grew with all she fed on. There was no rest for her in the sunlight, on all the wide earth.

If in the time to come she should have her dream, would even then her heart be satisfied? Could she ever love enough to relieve her love?

The one overmastering desire was to give⁠—nothing for herself, all for him. To give him all things; to ask nothing in return. Her desire was immeasurable⁠—she looked greedily on the earth spread out at the base of the hill⁠—that she might pour plenty at his feet, that she might give him the loveliness of all.

The larks were still singing, but she was not listening now. Their notes were far away, as if they sang higher than the clouds. Tears gathered in her eyes, and dimmed the view of the beauteous morn. Her breast heaved once, and her breath paused in her throat, checked by a sigh. A deep prayer can but end in tears⁠—a prayer like this which has no words, but gives a life instead of them. It was not sorrow, it was the unutterable depth of her joy in the love that held her.

He knew it not⁠—what of that? He might never know⁠—what of that? She had given her life to him, and it was a joy to her that she had done so. But with that joy there mingled the undertone of knowledge and of thought, that she should never, never, not even if his arms were about her, be able to fully pour forth her heart, making him understand her. How could he understand her? How could she ever tell him? And all that she could ever do for him under the happiest circumstances could not amount to one hundredth part of what she wished to do. She felt in that moment of tears that the fruition of human wishes can never equal the desire. The limit is reached long, long before. All falls so short.

Her breath came freely again, and she saw the distant sea clearly⁠—the mist in her eyes was gone. Once more the larks sang sweetly, and she listened. If we cannot reach to ideal things, at least we can do much, nearer to earth. The larks cannot rise to the heavens, but they sing high above their nests, and their voices are sweet to all below them.

Felise raised herself higher on her arm, and looked boldly at the blue sea-line. Her heart rose again; the strong courage in her inspired it. Bright and beautiful as the morning she rose to her feet, dauntless and resolute. Her will was strengthened by love, made ten times stronger. Bold as the sun, unabashed as the day, she would have her will; she claimed love as her right. Come what might, she would be his.

V

The sun had now grown fierce, and Felise, rising from the ground, walked along the hill, whose summit gradually declined. These hills of chalk are generally very steep in front, and laborious to ascend if attempted there; but at the rear they are much easier, and present no difficulty. In this they resemble human life, for the aspiring, whether in letters, politics, or commerce, find the utmost trouble in climbing up the precipitous frowning brow which defends the prize; but once on the top, sigh to observe that the back of the position, which was hidden from them, could have been easily ascended, and that after all they are only elevated in a trifling degree above their neighbours.

Immediately beneath the hill was a field of clover, and beyond that wheat; next came a large wood, extending round the hill to the left: a brightly-gleaming stream ran into and was lost in the shade of the wood. To the right were meadows, reaching as far as the eye could see through the crowded trees in the hedgerows. Among these Felise recognised her home, a mile or more distant, the roof and chimneys only visible above the foliage. The line of the sea appeared where another ridge of hill stooped, and rose again. It was five miles to the shore.

Turning to her left, Felise went over the ridge, and descended the slope, which was very gradual, about halfway, till she reached the shade of a solitary beech-tree growing there. She had been so full of her thoughts, and so insensible to her physical sensations, that the sun had heated her unpleasantly before she was aware of it, and the cool shadow of the beech was a relief. She leaned against its smooth trunk, and looked over a hollow valley, or plain, between several ridges.

They sloped down, one line behind the other, and a third across these; a fourth farther away, drawn along in those gentle outlines that look so easy to copy on paper, and are so difficult. The pencil can rarely hit the exact curve⁠—there is always a tendency to exaggerate; and some of the cleverest draughtsmen say the only method by which these illusive lines can be rendered is to gaze at them, and sketch without looking at the paper⁠—that is, to let the pencil obey the mandate of the eye without the intervening connection of the mind, yielding the faculties entirely to the curve.

This enclosed plain was grass-grown; a few hawthorns were

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