erpendicular walls of ice.

The first of these alternatives did not require any consideration
whatever. To the second I gave all the earnest consideration of which I
was capable, but I saw no way of getting up. The heights were
inaccessible.

In very truth, my case was a hard one. I could not make love to a woman
through a grating; and if I could, I would not be dishonorable enough to
do it, when that woman was locked up in a room, and could not get away
in case she did not wish to listen to my protestations. But between the
girl I loved and myself there was a grating compared with which the
barrier in the doorway of my study was as a spider's web. This was the
network of solemn bars which surrounded the sisters of the House of
Martha,--the vows they had made never to think of love, to read of it or
speak of it.

To drop metaphors, it would be impossible for me to continue to work
with her and conceal my love for her; it would be stupidly useless, and
moreover cowardly, to declare that love; and it would be sensible,
praiseworthy, and in every way advantageous for me to cease my literary
labors and go immediately to the Adirondacks or to Mount Desert. But
would I go away on Saturday or Sunday when she was coming on Monday? Not
I.

She came on Monday, surrounded by a gray halo, which had begun to grow
as beautiful to my vision as the delicate tints of early dawn. When she
began to read what she had last written, I seated myself in a chair by
the grating. When she had finished, I sat silent for a minute, got up
and walked about, came back, sat down, and was silent again. In my whole
mind there did not seem to be one crevice into which an available
thought concerning my travels could squeeze itself. She sat quietly
looking out of the window at the apple-tree. Presently she said:--

"I suppose you find it hard to begin work on Monday morning, after
having rested so long. It must be difficult to get yourself again into
the proper frame of mind."

"On this Monday morning," I answered, "I find it very hard indeed."

She turned, and for the first time that day fixed her eyes upon me. She
did not look well; she was pale.

"I had hoped," she said, with a little smile without any brightness in
it, "that you would finish the story of Tomaso and Lucilla; but I don't
believe you feel like composing, so how would you like me to read this
morning?"

"Nothing could suit me better," I answered; and in my heart I thought
that