opment. Rose does not wish to copy me. Honestly and
diligently, she spells and lisps to me something like a new language,
with the aid of which she will soon be able in her turn to express
herself and to feel. There are moments when she seems to understand me
perfectly, even to my inmost thoughts; and I sometimes say to her:

"Where was she in the old days, the girl who understands me so well now?
What did she do? Where did she live?..."

But where are all of us before the hour that reveals us to ourselves?
And what manner of being would he be who had never undergone any
influence or contact, who had never seen anything, felt anything? All
impressions, whether of persons or things, come to us from without, but
little by little and so imperceptibly that there is never a day in our
lives that may be called the day of awakening. And yet it exists for all
of us, shredded into decisive and fugitive minutes throughout our lives.
Imagine for an instant that we could gather them, put them together and
place them all in the hands of one being who, with one movement, would
scatter them all around us. Would not the change in our character, in
our thoughts, in our feelings be very remarkable? Would we not appear
actually "possessed" by that person, who, after all, would have been but
the instrument of a natural reaction of all our inert forces?

Filled with these thoughts, I said to Roseline:

"Dearest, once your life is kindled into feeling and expression, I can
no longer distinguish it, for it is absorbed in mine.... I shall soon be
going away; and all that I shall know of you will be your beauty, your
unhappiness and the tenderness of your heart."

Her great, innocent eyes, lifted to mine, asked:

"Is not that enough?"

And, almost ashamed of my doubts, I at once added:

"You shall come where I am; whatever happens, be sure that I will not
desert you."

With an abrupt gesture, she flung her arms around me; and, as we looked
into each other's eyes, the same mist rose before them. Was she at last
about to accompany me into the depths of my soul?

My heart burns with the fire of this new and longed-for emotion; and I
feel two crystal tears, two tears of sheer delight, slowly follow the
curve of my cheeks. Rose's own sensibilities have been blunted for a
time by her rough life; she does not yet know how to weep for happiness;
and, almost frightened, she convulsively presses her clasped hands
against her breast, as though