"Very amiable, Miss Lemark!" and I felt my old wrath rising, yet smiled it down. "You see all this is a conjecture on your part; you cannot know what I feel, nor is it for you to say that because I am a man I can have exactly what I please. Very possibly, precisely because I am a man, I cannot. But anyhow, I shall not betray myself, nor is it ever safe to betray ourselves, unless we cannot help it." "I do not care about betraying myself; I am miserable, and I _will_ have comfort,--comfort is for the miserable!" "Not the comfort a human heart can bring you, however soft it may chance to be." "I should hate a soft heart's comfort; I would not take it. It is because you are not soft-hearted I want yours." "I would willingly bestow it upon you if I knew how; but you know that Keble says: "Whom oil and balsams kill, what salve can cure?'" "I do not know Keble." "Then you ought to cultivate his acquaintance, Miss Lemark, as a poet, at least, if not as a gentleman." I wished at once to twist the subject aside and to make her laugh; a laugh dispels more mental trouble than any tears at times. But, contrary to expectation on my part, my recipe failed here; she broke into a tremendous weeping, without warning, nor did she hide her face, as those for the most part do who must shed their tears. She sobbed openly, aloud; and yet her sorrow did not inspire me with contempt, for it was as unsophisticated as any child's. It was evident she had not been accustomed to suffering, and knew not how to restrain its expression, neither that it ought to be restrained. I moved a few feet from her, and waited; I did right,--in the rain the storm exhaled. She wiped away her tears, but they yet pearled the long, pale lashes as she resumed,-- "I am much obliged to you for telling me I ought not to say these things; but it would be better if you could prevent my feeling them." "No one can prevent that, Miss Lemark; and perhaps it does not signify what you feel, if you can prevent its interfering with your duty to others and to yourself." "You to talk of duty,--you, who possess every delight that the earth contains, and with whom I would rather change places than with the angels!" "I have many delights; but if I had no duties to myself, the delights would fail. An artist, I consider, Miss Lemark, has the especial duty imposed upon him or her to let it be seen that art is the nearest thing in the universe to God, after nature; and his life must be tolerably pure for that." "That is just it. But it is easy enough to do right when you have all that your heart wants and your mind asks for. I have nothing." "Miss Lemark, you are an artist." "You know very well how you despise such art as mine, even if I did my duty by that; but I do not, and that is what I want comfort for. You did not think I should tell you anything else!" "I would have you tell me nothing that you are not obliged to say; it is dangerous,--at least, I should find it so."