Had she been the heroine of a novel there would
inevitably have been misunderstandings of the most serious and
complicated character. But she was mortal, and withal a very
tender-hearted little maiden, and the secret of her cold tones and
wistful glances, though for a while it sorely puzzled Allan, was at
last divined by the sure intuition of love. They met frequently at
various social gatherings, but it was as though a solid sheet of glass
intervened between them. Through this apparently impalpable medium
they could see, and smile, and speak, but no tender touch of palm, or
breath of love, or thrill of quickened heart-beat could be felt
between. How many times had Allan Dunlop been tempted to outstretch
his hand and shatter this glassy surface! It were easily done but at
the price of possible sharp pain and aching wounds, and the greater
horror of seeing the sweet grieving face on the other side shrink away
from him, startled by the shock. No, he would bide his time. And so,
while his eyes grew hollow, his close shut lips remained very
resolute. Love _can_ wait (though waiting is the hardest task ever
assigned it), but only on condition that it is given the food it needs.
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