some
find it, a gift of blessedness. They are our ordeal. Love of any human
object is the soul's ordeal; and they are ours, loving them, or not."

The young man heard the whistle of the train. He saw the moon-lighted
wood, and the vision of his beloved. He could barely hold himself down
and listen.

"I believe," the baronet spoke with little of the cheerfulness of
belief, "good women exist."

Oh, if he knew Lucy!

"But," and he gazed on Richard intently, "it is given to very few to
meet them on the threshold--I may say, to none. We find them after hard
buffeting, and usually, when we find the one fitted for us, our madness
has misshaped our destiny, our lot is cast. For women are not the
end, but the means, of life. In youth we think them the former, and
thousands, who have not even the excuse of youth, select a mate--or
worse--with that sole view. I believe women punish us for so perverting
their uses. They punish Society."

The baronet put his hand to his brow as his mind travelled into
consequences.

'Our most diligent pupil learns not so much as an earnest teacher,' says
The Pilgrim's Scrip; and Sir Austin, in schooling himself to speak with
moderation of women, was beginning to get a glimpse of their side of the
case.

Cold Blood now touched on love to Hot Blood.

Cold Blood said, "It is a passion coming in the order of nature, the
ripe fruit of our animal being."

Hot Blood felt: "It is a divinity! All that is worth living for in the
world."

Cold Blood said: "It is a fever which tests our strength, and too often
leads to perdition."

Hot Blood felt: "Lead whither it will, I follow it."

Cold Blood said: "It is a name men and women are much in the habit of
employing to sanctify their appetites."

Hot Blood felt: "It is worship; religion; life!"

And so the two parallel lines ran on.

The baronet became more personal:

"You know my love for you, my son. The extent of it you cannot know;
but you must know that it is something very deep, and--I do not wish to
speak of it--but a father must sometimes petition for gratitude, since
the only true expression of it is his son's moral good. If you care for
my love, or love me in return, aid me with all your energies to keep you
what I have made you, and guard you from the snares besetting you. It
was in my hands once. It is ceasing to be so. Remember, my son, what my
love is. It is different, I fear, with most fathers: but I am bound up
in your welfa