Knowles--that old sceptic--believed in it, and called it Love.

Even Goethe himself, what was it he said?
"Der Allumfasser, der Allerhalter, fasst und erhalt er nicht, dich, mich, sich selbst ?" There was a curious power in the words, as he lingered over them, like half-comprehended music,--as simple and tender as if they had come from the depths of a woman's heart: it touched him deeper than his power of control.

Pah! it was a dream of Faust's; he, too, had his Margaret; he fell, through that love.
He went on slowly to the mill.

If the name or the words woke a subtile remorse or longing, he buried them under restful composure.

Whether they should ever rise like angry ghosts of what might have been, to taunt the man, only the future could tell.
Going through the gas-lit streets, Holmes met some cordial greeting at every turn.