All the world was still beclouded with
mists, and the windows and doors looked forth on a blank white
nullity--as inexpressive, as enigmatical, as the unwritten page of the
unformulated future itself. The present seemed eliminated; he stood as it
were in the atmosphere of other days. But whither had blown the incense
of that happy time? The lights on the shrine had dwindled to extinction!
What had befallen his strong young hopes, his faith, his inspiration,
that they had exhaled and left the air vapid and listless? He was
conscious that he was no more the man who used to await her coming,
expectant, his eyes on the door. He had now scarcely a pulse in common
with that ardent young identity he remembered as himself--his convictions
of the nobler endowments of human nature; his candid unreserve with his
fellows; his aspirations toward a fair and worthy future; his docile,
sweet, almost humble content with such share of the good things of this
life as had been vouchsafed him; his strength, as "with the strength of
ten," to labor night and day with the impetus of his sanctified impulses;
but, above all, his love, that had consecrated his life, his love for
this woman who he believed--poor young fool!--loved him.
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