“Have I want of confidence—is it that? Perhaps it is,” said the girl seriously. “I who neither fear to risk life, limb, nor good opinion; I fear, oh! how I _do_ fear to lose the affection of one who loves me; I fear to be too much with them, to ask anything of them; I feel as though I would always rather serve them than receive service from them. Raymond, young as I am, I have already suffered so much from wounded sensibilities; I know you would not readily believe this, but oh! listen—the first thing I loved in this wide world was Sophie; the first thing I remember was sleeping on her bosom every night with her sweet breath on my cheek; I do suppose she spoiled me, I was always with her, she was devoted to me, absorbed in me, until a new enthusiasm seized her, and she—oh! but, Raymond, forgive me, I suppose it was all right, only I did not comprehend it, and when I was suddenly severed from Sophie, I wept all night, screamed all day, and then when she continued to neglect me, and when after the arrival of Rosalia, all the child spoilers in the house and in the neighborhood left me altogether, and clustered around Rosalia like bees around a clover blossom; well, Raymond! perhaps it was my nature after all, I took to the forest for my home, and to animals for my companions; I consoled myself at first for the want of affection, and, afterwards, I grew really independent of it! my heart was so high and strong, I did not care for love—not I! I loved others in a half contemptuous right royal way, but I asked no sort of return; indeed, I think, it would have annoyed me; but now, Raymond! now I love you, and I have your love, and I tremble—I tremble lest I lose _that_ also; no heart has been steady to me, no human heart I mean, up to this time (it remains to be seen whether yours will be, Raymond)—no human heart, I said—my pointers, Remus and Romulus, have been, and dog-like always will be. Do you know, Raymond, by the way, why I called my two favorites Remus and Romulus?” “I guess you thought, bitter girl, that the fate of the poor twins cast out to the wolf to be nursed was not unlike that of little Hagar rocked upon the tree tops.” “Yes, that was it.” “My dear Hagar, you must forget these things; it were unmerciful to remember them against my unhappy father, most cruel to remember them against dearest Sophie, whose mild life has been one offering for others.” “I do not remember them ever. I only recall them when forced to the recollection, and when I have to account to myself, or to you, for some strange trait foreign to a young girl’s character, and then I recall them without bitterness as facts, not as injuries.”