despair! O Peasant, be a machine again!" He entered his attic
noiselessly, and gazed upon Helen as she sat at work, straining her eyes
by the open window--with tender and deep compassion. She had not heard
him enter, nor was she aware of his presence. Patient and still she sat,
and the small fingers plied busily. He gazed, and saw that her cheek was
pale and hollow, and the hands looked so thin! His heart was deeply
touched, and at that moment he had not one memory of the baffled Poet,
one thought that proclaimed the Egotist.

He approached her gently, laid his hand on her shoulder, "Helen, put on
your shawl and bonnet, and walk out,--I have much to say."

In a few moments she was ready, and they took their way to their
favourite haunt upon the bridge. Pausing in one of the recesses, or
nooks, Leonard then began, "Helen, we must part!"

"Part?--Oh, brother!"

"Listen. All work that depends on mind is over for me, nothing remains
but the labour of thews and sinews. I cannot go back to my village and
say to all, 'My hopes were self-conceit, and my intellect a delusion!' I
cannot. Neither in this sordid city can I turn menial or porter. I
might be born to that drudgery, but my mind has, it may be unhappily,
raised me above my birth. What, then, shall I do? I know not yet,--
serve as a soldier, or push my way to some wilderness afar, as an
emigrant, perhaps. But whatever my choice, I must henceforth be alone;
I have a home no more. But there is a home for you, Helen, a very humble
one (for you too, so well born), but very safe,--the roof of--of--my
peasant mother. She will love you for my sake, and--and--"