The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. With a little sigh of happiness she accepted this new thing. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. “I want to be your friend,” he said. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss.
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