teacher. She was so far ahead that he called to her to wait for him. He
could read Greek; she could compose in it. But she preferred her native
tongue, as every scholar should. Now, Mr. Barrett was jealous of the fame
of his daughter. The passion of father for daughter, of mother for
son--there is often something very loverlike in it--a deal of whimsy! Miss
Barrett's darkened room had been illumined by a light that the gruff and
goodly merchant wist not of. Loneliness and solitude and physical pain and
heart-hunger had taught her things that no book recorded nor tutor knew.
Her father could not follow her; her allusions were obscure, he said,
wilfully obscure; she was growing perverse.

Love is a pain at times. To ease the hurt the lover would hurt the
beloved. He badgers her, pinches her, provokes her. One step more and he
may kill her.

Edward Barrett's daughter, she of the raven curls and gentle ways, was
reaching a point where her father's love was not her life. A good way to
drive love away is to be jealous. He had seen it coming years before; he
brooded over it; the calamity was upon him. Her fame was growing: some one
called her the Shakespeare of women. First, her books had been published
at her father's expense; next, editors were willing to run their own
risks, and now messengers with bank-notes waited at the door and begged to
exchange the bank-notes for manuscript. John Kenyon said, "I told you so,"
but Edward Barrett scowled. He accused her foolishly; he attempted to
dictate to her--she must use this ink or that. Why? Because he said so. He
quarreled with her to ease the love-hurt that was smarting in his heart.

Poor, little, pale-faced poet! Earthly success has nothing left for thee!
Thy thoughts, too great for speech, fall on dull ears. Even thy father,
for whom thou first took up pen, doth not understand thee! and a mother's