It is only the shadow of love, generally a
grotesque, ugly thing, like so many other shadows, that is blind either
to the troubles or the faults of the shadow it seems to love. The moment
our eyes met, I saw that he saw something in mine that was not there when
last we parted. But he said nothing, and we sat down to our lessons.
Every now and then as they proceeded, however, I felt rather than saw his
eyes rest on me for a moment, questioning. I had never known them rest on
me so before. Plainly he was aware of some change; and could there be
anything different in the relation of two who so long had loved each
other, without something being less well and good than before? Nor was it
indeed wonderful he should see a difference; for, with all the might of
my resolve to do even better than usual, I would now and then find myself
unconscious of what either of us had last been saying. The face had come
yet again, and driven everything from its presence! I grew angry--not
with the youth, but with his face, for appearing so often when I did not
invite it. Once I caught myself on the verge of crying out, "Can't you
wait? I will come presently!" and my uncle looked up as if I had spoken.
Perhaps he had as good as heard the words; he possessed what almost
seemed a supernatural faculty of divining the thought of another--not, I
was sure, by any effort to perceive it, but by involuntary intuition.
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