Has shone too straight upon his brain, I know, And fevered him with dreams of doing good To good-for-nothing people. But a wife Will put all right, and stroke his temples cool With healthy touches’.... I broke in at that. I could not lift my heavy heart to breathe Till then, but then I raised it, and it fell In broken words like these—‘No need to wait. The dream of doing good to ... me, at least, Is ended, without waiting for a wife To cool the fever for him. We’ve escaped That danger ... thank Heaven for it.’ ‘You,’ she cried, ‘Have got a fever. What, I talk and talk An hour long to you,—I instruct you how You cannot eat or drink or stand or sit, Or even die, like any decent wretch In all this unroofed and unfurnished world, Without your cousin,—and you still maintain There’s room ’twixt him and you, for flirting fans And running knots in eyebrows! You must have A pattern lover sighing on his knee: You do not count enough a noble heart, Above book-patterns, which this very morn Unclosed itself, in two dear fathers’ names, To embrace your orphaned life! fie, fie! But stay, I write a word, and counteract this sin.’ She would have turned to leave me, but I clung. ‘O sweet my father’s sister, hear my word Before you write yours. Cousin Vane did well, And cousin Romney well,—and I well too, In casting back with all my strength and will The good they meant me. O my God, my God! God meant me good, too, when he hindered me From saying ‘yes’ this morning. If you write A word, it shall be ‘no.’ I say no, no! I tie up ‘no’ upon His altar-horns, Quite out of reach of perjury! At least My soul is not a pauper; I can live At least my soul’s life, without alms from men; And if it must be in heaven instead of earth, Let heaven look to it,—I am not afraid,’ She seized my hands with both hers, strained them fast, And drew her probing and unscrupulous eyes Right through me, body and heart. ‘Yet, foolish Sweet, You love this man. I have watched you when he came, And when he went, and when we’ve talked of him: I am not old for nothing; I can tell The weather-signs of love—you love this man.’