‘She was a princess of the Grecian islands,’ he replied. ‘A king, being shipwrecked, found her washing by the shore. Certainly I, too, was shipwrecked,’ he continued, plucking at the grass. ‘There was never a more desperate castaway—to fall from polite life, fortune, a shrine of honour, a grateful conscience, duties willingly taken up and faithfully discharged; and to fall to this—idleness, poverty, inutility, remorse.’ He seemed to have forgotten her presence, but here he remembered her again. ‘Nance,’ said he, ‘would you have a man sit down and suffer or rise up and strive?’ ‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I would always rather see him doing.’ ‘Ha!’ said Mr. Archer, ‘but yet you speak from an imperfect knowledge. Conceive a man damned to a choice of only evil—misconduct upon either side, not a fault behind him, and yet naught before him but this choice of sins. How would you say then?’ ‘I would say that he was much deceived, Mr. Archer,’ returned Nance. ‘I would say there was a third choice, and that the right one.’ ‘I tell you,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘the man I have in view hath two ways open, and no more. One to wait, like a poor mewling baby, till Fate save or ruin him; the other to take his troubles in his hand, and to perish or be saved at once. It is no point of morals; both are wrong. Either way this step-child of Providence must fall; which shall he choose, by doing or not doing?’ ‘Fall, then, is what I would say,’ replied Nance. ‘Fall where you will, but do it! For O, Mr. Archer,’ she continued, stooping to her work, ‘you that are good and kind, and so wise, it doth sometimes go against my heart to see you live on here like a sheep in a turnip-field! If you were braver—’ and here she paused, conscience-smitten. ‘Do I, indeed, lack courage?’ inquired Mr. Archer of himself. ‘Courage, the footstool of the virtues, upon which they stand? Courage, that a poor private carrying a musket has to spare of; that does not fail a weasel or a rat; that is a brutish faculty? I to fail there, I wonder? But what is courage, then? The constancy to endure oneself or to see others suffer? The itch of ill-advised activity: mere shuttle-wittedness, or to be still and patient? To inquire of the significance of words is to rob ourselves of what we seem to know, and yet, of all things, certainly to stand still is the least heroic. Nance,’ he said, ‘did you ever hear of _Hamlet_?’ ‘Never,’ said Nance. ‘’Tis an old play,’ returned Mr. Archer, ‘and frequently enacted. This while I have been talking Hamlet. You must know this Hamlet was a Prince among the Danes,’ and he told her the play in a very good style, here and there quoting a verse or two with solemn emphasis. ‘It is strange,’ said Nance; ‘he was then a very poor creature?’ ‘That was what he could not tell,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘Look at me, am I as poor a creature?’