uld one love. _Who was Jesus Christ?_

... I went to the Passion Music, and sat alone in a little crowded
corner, afraid of being seen. It crucified my soul. I felt as if the
violins were bowing on my brain, sawing the little gray strings that
are my nerves. And then it came upon me like an overwhelming sea. This
Man--this God-man--loved the whole world and was rejected by it. I
loved one; and because she cast me off, I am as I am. True or not--His
story--but _is_ it true?

... Yet I cannot stop loving her. I love her to-day more, more, a
thousand times more, if that can be. Is it true I have no right to love
her? Then I have no right to breathe. I had no right to be born.

[Sidenote: _Ernest Hume to Francis Hume_]

Dear Francis,--Won't you come down for a day or two? If not, I think I
shall go to you. Write me a word.

[Sidenote: _Francis Hume to Ernest Hume_]

Dear father,--Try to be patient with me. I'll come soon, truly soon.
I'm not very good company. I'm thinking things out.

[Sidenote: _Telegram to Francis Hume_]

CONCORD, N. H.

Ernest Hume sick here with pneumonia. Come.

[Sidenote: _Mrs. Montrose to Zoe Morton_]

I am glad you got off so well, and that the sun shone at last. Ever so
many presents have come since you left. Mrs. Badger sends a Turkish
rug, hideous, I think, and abominably dirty. I smelled cholera, and in
five minutes sent the thing to be cleansed. Cousin Robert, in his usual
forethoughtful way, brought a silver service, unmarked, so that you can
exchange it if you like. Do you read the papers? Do you know about
Francis Hume? I found out casually from Bellamy Winthrop, who chanced
to go up with him in the train. Bellamy is a ferret; that you know. He
could get news out of a stone--or Francis. It seems Mr. Hume was very
ill, started to come down here, was taken worse in a Concord hotel, and
died there before Francis could reach him. The boy took his body and
carried it to that awful camp for burial. I desire never to set eyes on
the place again. I wrote to him, but he doesn't answer. Good luck to
you both. Regards to Captain Morton. I suppose I am to call him Ned?
What with the wedding and this last nightmare, my nerves are quite
unstrung.

Francis Hume had gone back. It was the spring now, and a visit to the
spot at that same time last year reminded me that the grass would have
been thick and tall before the door, and that the linden was in bloom.
I had found old Pierre in the vill