t room induced confidence, or she may have
felt the effect of my "receptivity," as she called it. (She always
insisted that she could not help telling me everything.) She turned away
abruptly from the fire, saying,--

"Do you know I don't love William a particle,--not the smallest atom?"

"I hope you are only talking nonsense," said I, rising, and ringing for
lights; "but it is painful for me to hear you. Don't! I beg!"

"No, it isn't nonsense. It is the simple truth. And it is best you
should know it. Because,--you don't want me to be a living lie, do you?
To the world I can keep up the old seeming. But it is better you should
know the truth."

"There I differ from you entirely, Lulu. If you are so sadly
unfortunate, so wretched, as not to love your husband, it is too painful
and serious a matter lightly to be talked of. It is a matter for
grievous lamentation,--a matter between your conscience and your God. I
don't think any friend can help you; and if not, of course you can have
no motive in confiding it."

She had the same old look, as if she would say, "Anan!" but presently
added,--

"He cares only for himself,--not at all for me. Don't I see that every
day? Am I but the plume in his cap? but the lace on his sleeve? but the
jewel in his linen? Whatever I might have felt for him, I am sure I have
no need to feel now; and I repeat to you, I should not care at all if I
were never again to lay my eyes on him!"

I shuddered to hear this talk. It was said, however, without anger, and
with the air rather of a simple child who thought it right not to have
false pretences. Her frankness, if it had been united with deep feeling,
would have touched me exceedingly. As it was, I was bewildered, yet only
anxious to avoid explanations, which it seemed to me would only increase
the evil.

Thoughts of the ill-training that had made such a poor piece of
life-work out of the rich materials before me made my heart ache. She
sat still, looking in the fire, like a child, rebuked and chidden for
some unconscious fault. So many fine traits of character, yet such a
hopeless want of balance, such an utter wrongheadedness! I turned, and
did what I very seldom do, yielded to my impulses of compassionate
tenderness and kissed her. To my surprise, she burst into a hearty fit
of crying.

"If I had known you early! or if my mother had lived!" she sobbed; "but
now I am good for nothing! I don't know what is right nor what is
wrong!"