It is not often, we suppose, that such deep offence is given to a lady by
the sort of admiration of which Agellius had been guilty in the case of
Callista; however, startled as he might be, and startled and stung he was,
there was too much earnestness in her distress, too much of truth in her
representations, too much which came home to his heart and conscience, to
allow of his being affronted or irritated. She had but supplied the true
interpretation of the misgiving which had haunted him that morning, from
the time he set out till the moment of his entering the room. Jucundus
some days back had readily acquiesced in his assurance that he was not
inconsistent; but Callista had not been so indulgent, though really more
merciful. There was a pause in the conversation, or rather in her
outpouring; each had bitter thoughts, and silently devoured them. At
length, she began again:--

"So the religion of Chione is a dream; now for four years I had hoped it
was a reality. All things again are vanity; I had hoped there was
something somewhere more than I could see; but there is nothing. Here am I
a living, breathing woman, with an over-flowing heart, with keen
affections, with a yearning after some object which may possess me. I
cannot exist without something to rest upon. I cannot fall back upon that
drear, forlorn state, which philosophers call wisdom, and moralists call
virtue. I cannot enrol myself a votary of that cold Moon, whose arrows do
but freeze me. I cannot sympathize in that majestic band of sisters whom
Rome has placed under the tutelage of Vesta. I must have something to
love; love is my life. Why do you come to me, Agellius, with your
every-day gallantry. Can you compete with the noble Grecian forms which
have passed before my eyes? Is your voice more manly, are its tones more
eloquent, than those which have thrilled through my ears since I ceased to
be a child? Can you add perfume to the feast by your wit, or pour sunshine
over grot and rushing stream by your smile? _What_ can you give me? There
was one thing which I thought you _could_ have given me, better than
anything else; but it is a shadow. You have nothing to give. You have
thrown me back upon my dreary, dismal self, and the deep wounds of my
memory.... Poor, poor Agellius! but it was not his fault, it could not be
helped," she continued, as if in thought; "it could not be helped; for, if
he had nothing to give, how could he give it? After all, he want