There is a voiceless love that is neither seen nor heard by
other eyes and ears--and I believe it is the best--underlying the
framework of our lives; it is a part of every pulse and fibre of our
being, no one may know it, no one may heed it, but it glows on
undaunted, with its steady, faithful purpose, ministering to its own
great needs out of the fulness and abundance of its own intensity.
Such is the nature of the noblest sentiments which have ever inspired
a human heart, the love of God is a silent love, but it is also an
active, self-abnegating love, the love of country is a silent love,
too great, too sacred for paltry, feeble words. Is it an active love?
History knows best.
And our love for one another, may it not lean towards this wonderful
perfection? May it not be a silent love of that silence which is far
more expressive than words? May it not brighten our eyes and quicken
our pulse, though our lips look so neutral and dumb? Does any one
doubt it? Anyone at least, whose own keen perceptions have left him
above the necessity of falling in with the ready-made judgments and
opinions of the surface-scanning multitude?
I do not say that such was Ernest Dalton's regard for me; I do not say
that at this time he loved me, I mean in a particular way; but I do
say, because I do think, that he acted as if he could. I was not quite
the same to him as every other woman friend, he had not spoken to me
on many occasions since my return from school; but though they were
few they were sufficient to convince me of this.
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