"It is because your face is ever before me; I can paint no other. It
is, that--I love you, Zoe!"
"Oh! is that the reason? And when you love one, her face is always
before you, whether she herself be present or no? Is it not so?"
"It is so," I replied, with a painful feeling of disappointment.
"And is that love, Enrique?"
"It is."
"Then must I love you; for, wherever I may be, I can see your face: how
plainly before me! If I could use this pencil as you do, I am sure I
could paint it, though you were not near me! What then? Do you think I
love you, Enrique?"
No pen could trace my feelings at that moment. We were seated; and the
sheet on which were the sketches was held jointly between us. My hand
wandered over its surface, until the unresisting fingers of my companion
were clasped in mine. A wilder emotion followed the electric touch: the
paper fell upon the floor; and with a proud but trembling heart I drew
the yielding form to mine!