me. Next morning it was just the same. It was as if I had waked in the
middle of some chaos over which God had never said: 'Let there be
light.' And the next day was worse. I began to see the bad in
everything--wrong motives--and self-love--and pretence, and everything
mean and low. And so it has gone on ever since. I wake wretched every
morning. I am crowded with wretched, if not wicked thoughts, all day.
Nothing seems worth anything. I don't care for anything."

"But you love somebody?"

"I hope I love my father. I don't know. I don't feel as if I did."

"And there's your cousin Percy." I confess this was a feeler I put
out.

"Percy's a fool!" she said, with some show of indignation, which I
hailed, for more reasons than one.

"But you enjoyed the sermon this morning, did you not?"

"I don't know. I thought it very poetical and very pretty; but whether
it was true--how could I tell? I didn't care. The baby he spoke about
was nothing to me. I didn't love him, or want to hear about him. Don't
you think me a brute, uncle?"

"No, I don't. I think you are ill. And I think we shall find something
that will do you good; but I can't tell yet what. You will dine with
us, won't you?"

"Oh! yes, if you and papa wish it."