Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion), 1854-1909 / 2008-07-31 00:00:00

We are so
poor, Greif!'
'But I can put panes into the frames and get some furniture. We need
not have so much at first.'
'But you will have to get everything, everything. You are used to so
much here.'
'I should not need much if I had you,' answered Greif looking at her,
as the colour rose in his own face.
'I do not know. Perhaps not.'
'I should be happy with you in a woodman's hut,' said Greif earnestly.
'Perhaps,' replied Hilda a little doubtfully.
'There is no "perhaps." I am quite sure of it.'
'How can you be sure?' asked the young girl turning suddenly and laying
her hands upon his arm. 'Did not your father say the same--no, forgive
me! I will not speak of that. Oh Greif! What is love--really--the
meaning of it, the true spirit of it? Why does it sometimes last and
sometimes--not? Are all men so different one from another, and women
too? Is it not like religion, that when you once believe you always
believe? I have thought about it so much, and I cannot understand it.
And yet I know I love you. Why can I not understand what I feel? Is it
very foolish of me? Am I less clever than other girls?'
'No, indeed!' Greif drew her to him, and kissed her cheek. Her colour
never changed. With innocent simplicity she turned her face and kissed
him in return.
'Then why is it?' she asked. 'And none of my books tell me what it
means, though I have read them all. Can you not tell me, you who know
so much? What is the use of all your studies and your universities, if
you cannot tell me what it is I feel, what love is?'
'Does love need explanation? What does the meaning matter, when one has
it?'
'Ah, you may say that of anything.
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