beautiful brown eyes, who had cherished a rather hopeless inclination for
Henry; now that he had lost that bold girl, she tremulously assured
herself, perhaps it was not quite so hopeless. Laura, too, had an idea
that such might possibly be the case, and hoping at least to distract her
brother, about whom she was becoming quite anxious, she had Ida over to
tea once or twice, and, by various other devices which with a clever
woman are matters of course, managed to throw her in his way.

He was too much absorbed to take any notice of this at first, but, one
evening when Ida was at tea with them, it suddenly flashed upon him, and
his face reddened with annoyed embarrassment. He had never felt such a
cold anger at Laura as at that moment. He had it in his heart to say
something very bitter to her. Would she not at least respect his grief?
He had ado to control the impulse that prompted him to rise and leave the
table. And then, with that suddenness characteristic of highly wrought
moods, his feelings changed, and he discovered how soft-hearted his own
sorrow had made him toward all who suffered in the same way. His eyes
smarted with pitifulness as he noted the pains with which the little girl
opposite him had tried to make the most of her humble charms in the hope
of catching his eye. And the very poverty of those charms made her
efforts the more pathetic. He blamed his eyes for the hard clearness with
which they noted the shortcomings of the small, unformed features, the
freckled skin, the insignificant and niggardly contour, and for the
cruelty of the comparison they suggested between all this and Madeline's
rich beauty. A boundless pity poured out of his heart to cover and
transfigure these defects, and he had an impulse to make up to her for
them, if he could, by sacrificing himself to her, if she desired. If she
felt toward him as he toward Madeline, it were worth his life to save the
pity of another such heart-breaking. So should he atone, perhaps, for the
suffering Madeline had given him.