He had cherished the idea of a clear fountain of ever-running water which would at last be his, always ready for the comfort of his own lips.

Now all his hope was shattered, his trust was gone, and his longing disappointed.

But the person was the same person, though she could not be his.

The nook was there, though she would not fill it.
The holy of holies was not less holy, though he himself might not dare to lift the curtain.

The fountain would still run,--still the clearest fountain of all,--though he might not put his lips to it.