o think of.
So long as it was or might be merely herself, what could she do?"

I began to see light now. "There _are_ others; and though they are of
less consequence, her generous heart would not let them suffer. Suppose
to one of them this meant life or death, hope or despair, use or
uselessness. Suppose one not like most of us, but simple, sincere, and
noble, unversed in the world's ways and little loving them, with a great
heart early clouded and a strong mind warped thereby, had begun to pin
his faith to her I speak of, and in her eyes to see reconciliation to
earth and heaven; and then for one rash word, one casual misconception
such as comes between any of us, had fancied the cup of promise snatched
away, and in his misjudging innocence gone back to his cave of gloom,
thinking himself doomed to a state worse than that from which he had
been nearly rescued. Would she let him stay there forever?"

"I suppose she ought not--if she could help it. It is well he has better
friends than she has proved. But I cannot talk of this: indeed I cannot.
It may be weak and foolish, but I cannot. You must do what you have to
do in your own way.--No, I will not be such a coward, and so basely
ungrateful. O, I understand your position, Robert. You will have to
question me: I am sorry, but it is the only way. Ask what you absolutely
need to know for your own guidance--I know you will ask no more--and I
will try to answer."

I groaned; and then I could have choked myself. Must my despicable
selfishness add to her burdens? What are my feelings, my petty
reluctance, to her interests? Have I not set myself aside? Are you not
man enough, Robert T., to put a few civil queries to a lady, when she
has just given you express permission, and even directed you to do so?
The less you sneer at cads after this, the better.--I was so long making
up my mind to it that the poor girl had to speak again.

"I am very sorry, brother. It is too bad to burden you so. If I could
save you the trouble, I would, indeed. O, I appreciate your motives, and
your delicacy, and all your efforts to shield and spare me--never fancy
that I did not, I have made more trouble than I am worth. If I could
only die, and end it all!"

This, as you may imagine, put a speedy end to my shilly-shallying. "That
would end it all, with a vengeance. Some other people of my acquaintance
would want to die then too--or before. Dearest Clarice, don't talk so.
Two things I can't bear