than they would once more begin to droop; so she cried a good deal, and
kept her bed; and very often did not remember exactly, whether she was
lying down there, or figuring on the Esplanade with Julian, and--all
that sort of thing: accordingly, it is not to be wondered at if, in
Aunt Green's double-house, the general and Emily saw very little of her,
and during all this illness, had almost forgotten her existence.
Nevertheless, she was alive still, and as vast as ever--though a course
of strong waters had shattered her nerves considerably; even more so,
than her real mother's grief at Julian's protracted absence.

Never had he been heard of since he left, hard heart; though he might
have guessed a mother's sorrow, and was not far away, and often lingered
near the house in strange disguises. It would have been easy for him, in
some clever way or other, latch-key and all, to have gained access to
her, and comforted her, and given her some real proof, that all the love
she had shed on him had not been utterly thrown away; but he didn't--he
didn't; and I know not of a darker trait in Julian's whole career; he
was insensible to love--a mother's love.

For love is the weapon which Omnipotence reserved to conquer rebel man;
when all the rest had failed. Reason he parries; Fear he answers blow to
blow; future interest he meets with present pleasure; but Love, that sun
against whose melting beams the Winter cannot stand, that soft-subduing
slumber which wrestles down the giant, there is not one human creature
in a million--not a thousand men in all earth's huge quintillion, whose
clay-heart is hardened against love.

Yet was Julian one of those select ones; an awful instance of that
possible, that actual, though happily that scarcest of all characters, a
man,