She looked now exactly like the picture of Saint Cecilia; and her appearance recalled to my mind what one of the American essayists, I forget who it is, observes quaintly somewhere, that it is no wonder that Catholics pay their vows to the queen of heaven, for "the unpoetical side of Protestantism is, that it has no woman to be worshipped." Of course I had fallen in love with her,--love at first sight; and, although you may not credit the assertion, allow me to put you right upon the point and inform you that such a thing is not only possible, but much more probable, and of more frequent occurrence than a good many people imagine or believe.

Love is sometimes the growth of degrees: it may also bound into existence in a moment; for there is a certain sympathetic attraction between some persons, as there is between others an antipathetical, repulsive force.

Understand, passion is not here alluded to.

That is, of the senses.

What I mean is, the essence or spirit of love, as pure as that which may subsist amongst the angels above.
I felt such love growing within me, as I looked at her, with her downcast eyes bent over her Bible, or as she sat, with head upraised and attentive ear, drinking in the words of spiritual wisdom addressed us by our good old pastor, of which at the time _I_ took but little heed.