my heart against him, and shut him out from my calculations of the
future. He is a sweet boy: interesting, affectionate, lovely; but I
will not allow myself to love him, and I don't allow him to love me!
But you ought to see him. His hair is like my own daughter's--long,
glossy, golden hair; and his eyes are large and blue, and the lashes
curl on his cheek like heavy fringes. He is too pale and too thin: he
looks sadly delicate; but his wretched mother was a delicate little
creature, and he has doubtless inherited a world of disease and poor
blood from her. I wish he was here though, for you to see; but I keep
him at school, for when he is much with me, I feel myself beginning to
be interested in him; and I do not wish to love him--I do not wish to
remember him at all! With that delicate frame and nervous temperament,
he _must_ die; and why should I prepare fresh sorrow for myself, by
taking him into my heart, only to have him plucked out again by
death?'

All this was said with the most passionate vehemence of manner, as if
she were defending herself against some unjust charge. I said
something in the way of remonstrance. Gently and respectfully, but
firmly, I spoke of the necessity for each soul to spiritualise its
aspirations, and to raise itself from the trammels of earth; and in
speaking thus to her, I felt my own burden lighten off my heart, and I
acknowledged that I had been both foolish and sinful in allowing my
first disappointment to shadow all the sunlight of my existence. I am
not naturally of a desponding disposition, and nothing but a blow as
severe as the non-success of my 'Finding the Body of Harold by
Torch-light' could have affected me to the extent of mental
prostration as that under which I was now labouring. But this was very
hard to bear! My companion listened to me with a kind of blank
surprise, evidently unaccustomed to the honesty of truth; but she bore