But, give me--to live and die in--the pure, white light of heaven!" "Why do you look so sorrowfully at me ?" asked Hilda, quietly meeting his disturbed gaze.

"What would you say to me?
I love the white light too!" "I fancied so," answered Kenyon.

"Forgive me, Hilda; but I must needs speak.

You seemed to me a rare mixture of impressibility, sympathy, sensitiveness to many influences, with a certain quality of common sense;--no, not that, but a higher and finer attribute, for which I find no better word.

However tremulously you might vibrate, this quality, I supposed, would always bring you back to the equipoise.