“When you remember,” said the doctor, “that I am seldom at home, that you have had ten hours to my one to instil _your_ principles, you ought not to complain. Fannie, dear,” he said, after a pause, and suddenly changing his defiant mood, “let us do the best we can with life. Heaven knows it is anything but a blessing to most of us.” This is what he actually said, but there had been quite a different train of thought in his mind. It had just escaped utterance, through one of those mysteries of brain-action that control our motives. He had been about to say that it had been better for her, and him also, if they had separated twenty years ago; that nothing cramps the growth of all that is best in manhood and womanhood like the forced intimacy of the marriage tie, when no deep sympathy or mutual trust exists; that it is like preserving year after year a corpse in your drawing-room with spices and perfumes, pretending that it is only sleeping. He was glad he had not said it, for no power of his could make her enter, even for a moment, the world in which he lived; and it was useless, and worse than useless, to attempt it. He left soon after on his round of daily visits to his patients, taking with him a note from Clara to Susie, and a little later Mrs. Forest went to Clara’s room. This was an interview that Clara dreaded, for her mother would neither comprehend nor excuse her motives for the step she had taken. Clara commenced by saying she was sorry that she had been compelled to do anything that grieved her mother. As she said this she rose and begged her mother to take the arm-chair in which she had been sitting by the fire, wrapped in her mother’s “double gown.” Mrs. Forest refused kindly, and brought a shawl for Clara’s shoulders, as the morning was cold. Clara was touched by this kindness, which she expressed by kissing her mother’s hand. Mrs. Forest wanted the whole story. Clara commenced, but broke down after a few sentences. Mrs. Forest soothed her a little, and then sat down quietly and commenced to sew. One of her soothing remarks was that no doubt Albert would forgive her for leaving him, and write for her to return. “That will only show how little he knows of my father’s girl.” “Your father’s girl,” said Mrs. Forest, with some heat, “was always a Quixotic enthusiast, always holding notions and whims that no sober-minded person ever heard of.” “I don’t know that my ambition is to be sober-minded. Heads are very good in their way, but as for me, I believe in hearts.” “And no doubt you worried Albert to death with your romantic nonsense.” “Did I?” said Clara, as if her thoughts were far away. “I wished him to love me, mother dear. If that is being romantic, I am certainly guilty.”