While Severne related this, there passed a somewhat notable thing in the world of mind. The inventor of this history did not understand it; the hearer did, and accompanied it with innocent sympathetic sighs. Her imagination, more powerful and precise than the inventor's, pictured the horror of the high-minded brother, his agony, his shame, his respect for law and honesty, his pity for his own flesh and blood, his struggle, and the final triumph of fraternal affection. Every line of the figment was alive to her, and she _realized_ the tale. Severne only repeated it. At the last touch of his cold art, the warm-hearted girl could contain no longer. “Oh, poor Mr. Severne!” she cried; “poor Mr. Severne!” And the tears ran down her cheeks. He looked at her first with a little astonishment--fancy taking his little narrative to heart like that--then with compunction, and then with a momentary horror at himself, and terror at the impassable gulf fixed between them, by her rare goodness and his depravity. Then for a moment he felt, and felt all manner of things at once. “Oh, don't cry,” he blurted out, and began to blubber himself at having made her cry at all, and so unfairly. It was his lucky hour; this hysterical effusion, undignified by a single grain of active contrition, or even penitent resolve, told in his favor. They mingled their tears; and hearts cannot hold aloof when tears come together. Yes, they mingled their tears, and the crocodile tears were the male's, if you please, and the woman's tears were pure holy drops, that angels might have gathered and carried them to God for pearls of the human soul. After they had cried together over the cool figment, Zoe said: “I do not repent my curiosity now. You did well to tell me. Oh, no, you were right, and I will never tell anybody. People are narrow-minded. They shall never cast your brother's crime in your teeth, nor your own losses I esteem you for--oh, so much more than ever! I wonder you could tell me.” “You would not wonder if you knew how superior you are to all the world: how noble, how generous, and how I--” “Oh, Mr. Severne, it is going to rain! We must get home as fast as ever we can.” They turned, and Zoe, with true virgin coyness, and elastic limbs, made the coming rain an excuse for such swift walking that Severne could not make tender love to her. To be sure, Apollo ran after Daphne, with his little proposals; but, I take it, he ran mute--till he found he couldn't catch her. Indeed, it was as much as Severne could do to keep up with her “fair heel and toe.” But I ascribe this to her not wearing high heels ever since Fanny told her she was just a little too tall, and she was novice enough to believe her.