A fantasy novel by George MacDonald

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pillows of her couch. Gradually, however, her countenance had grown more composed; much of the suffering manifest on her first appearance had vanished, and a kind of quiet, hopeful expression had taken its place ; which, however, frequently gave way to an anxious, troubled look, mingled with something of sympathetic pity.
Meantime, how fared Cosmo? As might be ex­pected in one of his temperament, his interest had blossomed into love, and his love—shall I call it ripened, or—withered into passion ? But, alas ! he loved a shadow. He could not come near her, could not speak to her, could not hear a sound from those sweet lips, to which his longing eyes would cling like bees to their honey-founts. Ever and anon, he sang to himself:
" I shall die for lore of the maiden;" and ever he looked again, and died not, though his heart seemed ready to break with intensity of life and longing. And the more he did for her, the more he loved her; and he hoped that, although she never appeared to see him, yet she was pleased to think that one unknown would give his life to her. He tried to comfort himself over his separation from her, by thinking that perhaps some day she
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