“Is it indeed true? dost thou then love me?”

“As my own soul!” passionately answered the student.

Isilda hid her face again in his bosom, and burst into a shower of tears.

The girl and her lover went home together that night, through the cold, clear starlight, to Isilda’s abode. Many and many a time had they trod the same path, but now everything was changed. They had become all in all to each other; an infinity of love was around them; all was light, hope, and trembling gladness. The crisp snow crackled under Isilda’s feet, and the sharp frosty air made her shiver; but she felt it not. She only clung the closer to Basil’s arm; he was all her own now; he, her life’s joy, her pride, the idol of her dreams, the delight of her soul. Such happiness was almost too much to bear; and, therefore, when she first knew that he loved her, had Isilda wept,——nay, even when she had parted from Basil and was alone, her full heart poured itself forth in tears. That he,——the noble, the gifted, so rich in the greatest of all wealth,——the wealth of genius; honored among men, with a glorious harvest of fame yet unreaped before him,——that he should love her, who had nothing to give but a heart that worshipped him! The girl, in her humility, felt unworthy of such deep happiness; all that her lips would utter were the blessed, joyful words, “He loves me,——he loves me! my Basil, mine own!” And even in her sleep she murmured the same.

Man’s love is not like woman’s, yet Basil was very happy,——happier than he had ever been in his life. The student, the philosopher, felt that all his wisdom was as nothing compared to the wondrous alchemy of love. So far from being weakened, his lofty mind seemed to grow richer beneath the light of beloved eyes; it was like the sunshine to the ripening corn. Basil now knew how long Isilda had filled his thoughts, and been mingled with all his hopes. He did not even then fathom the depths of her spirit, but he felt it was one with his; and man, proud man, ever rejoices to see his soul’s image reflected in a woman’s heart.III.

A year had passed over the head of the student of Cologne. It had been a year full of changes. Death had entered the house and taken the tender mother; the strong-hearted but gentle matron, who had filled the place of both parents toward Basil and Margareta in their fatherless youth. The student had now only his sister to cheer his desolate home; and little joy was there in the young girl’s heart, or brightness on her face, for she was still in the shadow of past sorrow, her first grief, 

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