There he stood, gazing at the rippling water, at the tall yards as they slowly crossed and recrossed the face of the moon, with the rocking of the boats, at the cliffs to the right and left, at the dim headland of the Campanella, at all the sights long familiar to him--seeing none of them and yet feeling that they at least were his own people, that they understood him and knew what he felt--what he had no words with which to tell any one, if he had wished to tell it.
For he who loves and is little loved, or not at all, has no friend, be he of high estate or low, beyond nature, the deep-bosomed, the bountiful, the true; and on her he may lean, trusting, and know that he will not be betrayed.

And in time her language will be his.

But she will be heard alone when she speaks with him, and without rival, with the full right of a woman who gives all her love and asks for a man's soul in return, recking little of all the world besides.

But not all know how kind she is, how merciful and how sweet.

For she does not heal broken hearts.