touched a woman's hand! God! how lonely I am! Don't look at me in that way;
don't pity me, or I shall lose what little manhood I have left!"

"What is it?" she said, leaning towards him. "There is something strange in
your face. If you are in trouble, tell me; it will help me to hear it. I am
not so very happy myself."

"Why should I add my load to yours? I seem always to impose myself upon
you, first my hopes, and now my--no, it isn't despair; it is only a kind
of brutal numbness. You must have the fatal gift of sympathy, or you would
never have seen my little hurt."

Miss Frances was not strong enough to bear the look in his eyes as he
turned them upon her, with a dreary smile. She covered her face with one
hand, while she whispered,--

"Is it--you have not lost her?"

"Yes! Or, rather, I never had her. I've been dreaming like a boy all these
years,--'In sleep a king, but waking, no such matter.'"

"It is not death, then?"

"No, she is not dead. She is not even false; that is, not very false. How
can I tell you how little it is, and yet how much! She is only a trifle
selfish. Why shouldn't she be? Why should we men claim the exclusive right
to choose the best for ourselves? It was selfish of me to ask her to share
such a life as mine; and she has gently and reasonably reminded me that
I'm not worth the sacrifice. It's quite true. I always knew I wasn't. She
put it very delicately and sweetly;--she's the sweetest girl you ever saw.