thing it might be in its nature and defences; and, as against an
accomplished disputant she made but a poor battle, he injured what was
precious to her without himself gaining any good whatever.

"Why, what do you look forward to?" she said wondering, at the end of one
of their arguments, as he courteously termed this play of logical foils
with a baby.

"Death," answered the grave gentleman, striding on.

Emilia pitied him, thinking: "I might feel as he does, if I had not my
voice." Seeing that calamity very remote, she added: "I should!"

She knew of his position toward Cornelia: that is, she knew as much as he
did: for the want of a woman's heart over which to simmer his troubles
was urgent within him and Emilia's, though it lacked experience, was a
woman's regarding love. And moreover, she did not weep, but practically
suggested his favourable chances, which it was a sad satisfaction to him
to prove baseless, and to knock utterly over. The grief in which the soul
of a human creature is persistently seeking (since it cannot be thrown
off) to clothe itself comfortably, finds in tears an irritating
expression of sympathy. Hints of a brighter future are its nourishment.
Such embryos are not tenacious of existence, and when destroyed they are
succulent food for a space to the moody grief I am describing.

The melancholy gentleman did Emilia this good, that, never appearing to
imagine others to know misery save himself, he gave her full occupation
apart from the workings of her own mind. As to her case, he might have
offered the excuse that she really had nothing of the aspect of a
lovesick young lady, and was not a bit sea-green to view, or lamentable
in tone. He was sufficiently humane to have felt for anyone suffering,
and the proof of it is, that the only creature he saw under such an
influence he pitied so deplorably, as to make melancholy a habit with
him. He fretted her because he would do nothing, and this spectacle of a
lover beloved, but consenting to be mystified, consentingly
paralyzed:--of a lover beloved!--

"Does she love you?" said Emilia, beseechingly.

"If the truth is in her, she does," he returned.

"She has told you she loves you?--that she loves no one else?"

"Of this I am certain."

"Then, why are you downcast? my goodness! I would take her by the hand
'Woman; do you know yourself? you belong to me!'--I would say that; and
never let go her hand. That would decide everything. She must come