“And have you gone through life without ever meeting one with whom you would have been content to make partnership,--taking her, as those solemn words say, 'for better, for worse'?” “They are solemn words,” said he, evading her question; “for they pledge that for which it is so hard to promise,--the changeful moods which time and years bring over us. Which of us at twenty can say what he will be at thirty,--still less at fifty? The world makes us many things we never meant to be.” [Illustration: 137] “So, then, you are not happy?” said she, in the same low voice. “I have not said so much,” said he, smiling sadly; “are you?” “Can you ask me? Is not the very confidence wherewith I treat you--strangers as we were an hour back to each other--the best evidence that it is from the very depth of my misery I appeal to you?” “Make no rash confidences, Lady Grace,” said he, seriously. “They who tell of their heart's sorrows to the world are like those who count their gold before robbers. I have seen a great deal of life, and the best philosophy I have learned from it is to 'bear.' Bear everything that can be borne. You will be surprised what a load you will carry by mere practice of endurance.” “It is so easy to say to one in pain, 'Have patience,'” said she, bitterly. “I have practised what I teach for many a year. Be assured of one thing,--the Battle of Life is waged by all. The most favored by fortune--the luckiest, as the world calls them--have their contest and their struggle. It is not for existence, but it is often for what makes existence valuable.” She sighed deeply, and, after a pause, he went on,-- “We pity the poor, weary, heart-sick litigant, wearing out life in the dreary prosecution of a Chancery suit, dreaming at night of that fortune he is never to see, and waking every day to the same dull round of pursuit. As hope flickers in his heart, suffering grows a habit; his whole nature imbibes the conflicting character of his cause; he doubts and hesitates and hopes and fears and wishes, till his life is one long fever. But infinitely more painful is the struggle of the heart whose affections have been misplaced. These are the suits over which no hope ever throws a ray. It is a long, dreary path, without a halting-place or a goal.” As he spoke, she covered her face with her handkerchief; but he could perceive that she was weeping.