“Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bend To this thy purpose—to begin, pursue, With thoughts all fixed and feelings purely kind; Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is due.”—_Charles Wilcox._ It was over. Until this, he had not realized his true position. Nay, he did not fully realize it now. He sat, as one stunned, in the seat into which he had dropped when the door closed behind her. Until now, he had been elevated by a high enthusiasm in his purpose, and supported by a firm faith in her sympathy and co-operation—a faith, the strength of which he had not known until it was stricken from him, and he was left weaker than a child. Why! it really had not seemed so great a sacrifice to resign wealth and position with _her_ by his side—with _her_ approving looks, and smiles, and words—with _her_ cordial, affectionate concurrence. And how often the picture had glowed before his imagination, as he recalled her kindling cheek, and kindling eye, and fervent imagination, while reading with him of some heroic deed of self-devotion in _another_! And when he thought of all that earnest enthusiasm with himself for its object——forgive him, it was no better than a lover’s aspiration, perhaps; but all his soul took fire at her image, and all things seemed easy to do, to be, or to suffer, for such an unspeakable joy. That _he_ should be her Curtius, her Bayard, her Hampden, Sydney, her _hero_. And until now, he had believed this, and had lived and acted under a strange illusion. And if for an instant his faith in her sympathy had ever been shaken, it was merely as the Christian believer’s trust is shaken, only to strike its roots the deeper after the jar. But now—oh! this was indeed the bitterness of death! In the first stunned moment after his fall from such a height of confidence and joy, into such a depth of desolation and wretchedness, he could scarcely believe in his misery, far less analyze it, and detect its hidden and bitterest element. And _this_ was its bitterest element—the ascertained antagonism of his India—her _utter_ antagonism! This was the weapon that had felled him to the earth. This was the fang of the adder, struck deep in his heart, and poisoning all his soul!—with what? With distrust!—distrust of her, of himself, of all men and women! As yet, all this he felt, without acknowledging, nay, without perceiving it. He sat there as one in a trance. And the hours that passed over him were as a blank.