By this time, Leonard Clare had become almost a dream to her. She
had neither seen him nor heard of him since he let go her hand on
that memorable evening beside the stream. He was a strange,
bewildering chance, a cypher concealing a secret which she could
not intelligently read. Why should she keep the memory of that
power which was, perhaps, some unconscious quality of his nature
(no, it was not so! something deeper than reason cried:), or long
since forgotten, if felt, by him?
The man whom she most esteemed came back to her. She knew the
ripeness and harmony of his intellect, the nobility of his
character, and the generosity of a feeling which would be satisfied
with only a partial return. She felt sure, also, that she should
never possess a sentiment nearer to love than that which pleaded
his cause in her heart. But her hand lay quiet in his, her pulses
were calm when he spoke, and his face, manly and true as it was,
never invaded her dreams. All questioning was vain; her heart gave
no solution of the riddle.
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