There may even be no pain in the slow discovery that in no one other soul can it be found. It is sometimes more sadly true, and makes one of life's problems far more intricate, that we know not when it comes or when it goes. It's death is as incomprehensible as its birth. Sometimes it is drained away, silently and unsuspectedly, by the thousand wearing trifles inevitably attendant upon that constant companionship which the torrent of newborn love so imperiously demands. Sometimes it is swept away in one instant by the discovery of some quality of character of whose existence we have never dreamed.
All life is either growth or decay, - that is, change.
And with every change in the individual there is change in his love. In the happiest lives and the longest loves its proportion and depth and character are perpetually changing.