Late that evening, after we had got home and dined, as I sat in my room over "Pickwick" with a sedative cigar, a gentle knock at the door told of Daniel. I called "Come in!" and, entering with a slow, dejected air, he sat down by my fire. For ten minutes he remained silent, though occasionally looking up as if about to speak, then dropping his head again, to ponder on the coals. Finally I laid down Dickens and spoke myself: "You don't seem well to-night, Daniel?" "I don't feel very well, uncle." "What's the matter, my boy?" "Oh-ah, I don't know. That is, I wish I knew how to tell you." I studied him for a few minutes with kindly curiosity, then answered: "Perhaps I can save you the trouble by cross-examining it out of you. Let's try the method of elimination. I know that you're not harassed by any economical considerations, for you've all the money you want; and I know that ambition doesn't trouble you, for your tastes are scholarly. This narrows down the investigation of your symptoms-- listlessness, general dejection, and all--to three causes--dyspepsia, religious conflicts, love. Now, is your digestion awry?" "No, sir; good as usual. I'm not melancholy on religion, and--" "You don't tell me you're in love?" "Well,--yes--I suppose that's about it, Uncle Teddy." I took a long breath to recover from my astonishment at this unimaginable revelation, then said: "Is your feeling returned?" "I really don't know, uncle; I don't believe it is. I don't see how it can be. I never did anything to make her love me. What is there in me to love? I've borne nothing for her--that is, nothing that could do her any good--though I've endured on her account, I may say, anguish. So, look at it any way you please, I neither am, do nor suffer anything that can get a woman's love." "Oh, you man of learning! Even in love you tote your grammar along with you, and arrange a divine passion under the active, passive and neuter!" Daniel smiled faintly. "You've no idea, Uncle Teddy, that you are twitting on facts; but you hit the truth there; indeed, you do. If she were a Greek or Latin woman I could talk Anacreon or Horace to her. If women only understood the philosophy of the flowers as well as they do the poetry--" "Thank God they don't, Daniel!" sighed I devoutly. "Never mind--in that case I could entrance her for hours, talking about the grounds of differences between Linnaeus and Jussieu. Women like the star business, they say--and I could tell her where all the constellations are; but sure as I tried to get off any sentiment about them, I'd break down and make myself ridiculous. But what earthly chance would the greatest philosopher that ever lived have with the woman he loved if he depended for her favor on his ability to analyze her bouquet or tell her when she might look out for the next occultation of Orion? I can't talk bread-and-butter talk. I can't do anything that makes a man even tolerable to a woman!"