” His eyes were closed. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. "Don't leave him, if you're at all fearful, my dear," replied Wood, receiving the little burthen with a laugh.
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