There is a magic mystery and power in it, which we can laugh at in the sunshine, but whose reality, at times, forces itself upon us mightily.
As Bressant trod onward, with the warm and lovely woman living and moving at his side, and clinging to his arm with a dainty pressure, just perceptible enough to make him wish it were a little closer--it entered his mind to marvel at the tender change that seemed to have come over familiar things.
"I've walked often in the night, before," observed he, looking around him, and then at Cornelia; "on the same road, too; but it never made me feel as now.

It is beautiful." He used the word with a doubtful intonation, as if unaccustomed to it, and not quite sure whether he were applying it correctly.
"You speak as if you didn't know what you were talking about!" said Cornelia, with a round, melodious laugh.

"Did you never see or care for any thing beautiful before this evening ?" "You remember that night in the garden ?" asked Bressant, abruptly.

"I've learned a great deal since then.

I couldn't understand it at the moment; I wasn't prepared for it--understand?
but I know now--it was beauty--I saw it and felt it--and it drove me out of myself." Cornelia was thrilled, half with fear and half with delight.