With a form so perfect--a form a sylph might have envied--a voice sweeter than the Singing Fountain of Arabia, hands and feet the most perfectly beautiful the sun ever shone on, it was simply a moral and physical impossibility that they could be joined to a repulsive face.

There was a remote possibility that it was a little less exquisite than those ravishing items, and that her morbid fancy made her imagine it homely, compared with them, but he knew he never would share in that opinion.

It was the reasoning of love, rather than logic; for when love glides smiling in at the door, reason stalks gravely, not to say sulkily, out of the window, and, standing afar off, eyes disdainfully the didos and antics of her late tenement.

There was very little reason, therefore, in Ormiston's head and heart, but a great deal of something sweeter, joy--joy that thrilled and vibrated through every nerve within him.

Leaning against the portal, in an absurd delirium of delight--for it takes but a trifle to jerk those lovers from the slimiest depths of the Slough of Despond to the topmost peak of the mountain of ecstasy--he uncovered his head that the night-air might cool its feverish throbbings.