Lizzy never replied a word; every syllable of her father's speech was, as it were, “filtering down” into her mind, and she brooded long over the thoughts thus suggested. Thus, walking along in silence, side by side, they drew nigh the house. They had now gained the little garden before the door, and were standing in the broad full moonlight, face to face, Davis saw that her eyes were red and her cheeks marked by tears; but an impassive calm, and a demeanor subdued even to coldness, seemed to have succeeded to this emotion. “Oh, my poor girl,” broke he out, in a voice of deepest feeling, “if I did n't know the world so well,--if I did n't know how little one gains by indulging affection,--if I did n't know, besides, how you yourself will think of all this some ten or twelve years hence, I could n't have the heart for it.” “And--must--it--be?” faltered she out, in a broken accent. Davis threw his arm around her, and, pressing her to him, sobbed bitterly. “There, there,” cried he, “go in,--go in, child; go to bed, and get some sleep.” And with this he turned quickly away and left her. CHAPTER X. A RIDE TO NEUWIED Long before Lizzy had composed herself to sleep--for her heart was torn by a first sorrow, and she lay restless and fevered--her father, mounted on a post-horse, was riding away towards the Rhine. He had desired that the reply to his telegraphic message should be addressed to him at the post-office of Neuwied, and thither he was now bent. It is a strange thing, that when the affections of men of this stamp are deeply moved,--when their sensibilities, long dulled and hardened by the rubs of life, are once evoked,--the feelings excited are less those of gentleness and tenderness than an almost savage desire for some personal conflict. Urging his horse to full speed, Davis spared neither whip nor spur. Alone upon that solitary road, he asked himself aloud if he were less alone in the broad, bleak world? “Is not the 'field' against me wherever I go? I never heard of the fellow that had not some 'moorings'--some anchorage--except myself.” But a brief hour ago and there was one who loved him with all her heart,--who saw, or fancied she saw, a rich mine of generous qualities in his rough manners and blunt address,--who pictured to her mind what such a nature might have been under happier circumstances and with better culture. “And now,” cried he, aloud,--“now she knows me for what I am, how will she bear this? Will she sink under it, will it crush her, or has she enough of my own blood in her veins to meet it courageously? Oh! if she only knew the world as I do,--what a mean coward it is, how it bullies the weak and truckles to the strong, how it frowns down the timid and simpers to the sturdy! Every man--ay, and every woman--can sell his life dearly; and strange it is, one only learns the value of this secret too late. Let a fellow start with it, and see what it does for him. _I_ went at them