"You aren't a very good instance, Chris, because, you see, you are rather a reserved, cold-hearted person, and not at all affectionate; but still you are fond of people in your own way." "Yes; I am fond of one or two people--but in my own way, as you say," Christopher replied quietly. "And even you understand that forced and artificial devotion isn't worth having." "Yes; even I understand as much as that." "So you will see that unselfishness and renunciation and things of that sort are only second-best things after all, and that there is nothing of the kind between people who really love each other, because their two wills are merged in one, and each finds his own happiness in the happiness of the other. And I don't believe that God wants us to give up our wills to His in a 'Thy way not mine' kind of way; I believe He wants the same mind to be in us that was in Christ Jesus, so that He and we shall be wishing for the same things." "Wise Elisabeth, I believe that you are right." "And you'll see how right I am, when you really care very much for somebody yourself. I don't mean in the jolly, comfortable way in which you care for Mr. Smallwood and Cousin Maria and me. That's a very nice friendly sort of caring, I admit, and keeps the world warm and homelike, just as having a fire in the room keeps the room warm and homelike; but it doesn't teach one much." Christopher smiled sadly. "Doesn't it? I should have thought that it taught one a good deal." "Oh! but not as much as a lovely romantic attachment would teach one--not as much as Alan and Felicia are teaching each other now." "Don't you think so?" "Of course I don't. Why, you've never taught me anything, Chris, though we've always been fond of each other in the comfortable, easy fashion." "Then the fault has been in me, for you have taught me a great many things, Elisabeth." "Because I've taken the trouble to do so. But the worst of it is that by the time I've taught you anything, I have changed my mind about it myself, and find I've been teaching you all wrong. And it is a bother to begin to unteach you." "I wonder why. I don't think I should find it at all a bother to unteach you certain things." "And it is a greater bother still to teach you all over again, and teach you different." Elisabeth added, without attending to the last remark. "Thank you, I think I won't trespass on your forbearance to that extent. Some lessons are so hard to master that life would be unbearable if one had to learn them twice over." Christopher spoke somewhat bitterly. Elisabeth attended then. "What a funny thing to say! But I know what it is--you've got a headache; I can see it in your face, and that makes you take things so contrariwise." "Possibly." "Poor old boy! Does it hurt?" "Pretty considerably." "And have you had it long?" "Yes," replied Christopher with truth, and he added to himself, "ever since I can remember, and it isn't in my head at all."