CHAPTER XXI.
THE PASSING OF WANDA.
After night comes morning in the material world, but in that inner
sphere of thought and feeling, which is the only reality, it
frequently happens that after night comes a greater depth of darkness.
The early light of successive summer mornings falling into the
sleeping-room of Edward Macleod seemed to mock the heavy gloom which
perpetually enshrouded his heart. He was back in his old home, for the
pleasant circle at Stamford Cottage had broken up shortly after the
unexpected advent of Wanda. A few days of enforced civilization had
affected her more severely than the hard journey preceding it, and she
had returned to her native wilds with the feeling of a bird regaining
its freedom. Where in all the limitless forest she could be found at
any particular time her lover could not tell. He was her lover
still--he must always remain her lover. He had attempted to limit and
define the strange irresistible attraction she exerted over him, he
had voluntarily resolved upon life-long celibacy rather than subject
her to the bitterness of seeing him belong to another; and if in
thought he ever yielded to this great, untamed unrepressed love of
hers, it was with something of the exaltation and ardour of one who
makes a supreme sacrifice.
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