“I speak as I feel,” replied Carriston with a sigh. “I also have my story, old and unromantic-looking as I am. Come over to the Rectory to-morrow, my dear lad, and I will tell you something which will make you see how foolish it is to be miserable in God’s beautiful world.” “I am afraid it will give you pain.” “No; it will not give me pain. What was my greatest sorrow is now my greatest consolation. You will come and see me to-morrow?” “If you wish it.” “I do wish it.” “Then I will come.” There was silence for a few moments, each of them being occupied with his own thoughts. The Rector was evidently thinking of that old romance which had stirred him to such an unwonted display of emotion; and Maurice saw for the first time in his selfish life that other men had sorrows as well as he, and that he was not the only person in the world who suffered from _Selbstschmerz_. “But come, Maurice,” said the Rector, after a pause, “I was talking about curing you by marriage.” “Love!” “Well, marriage in your case, I hope, will be love,” observed Carriston, a trifle reproachfully. “I would be sorry indeed to see you make any woman your wife unless it was for true love’s sake.” “Well, whom do you want me to love?” “Ah, that is for you to decide. But, if I may make a suggestion, I should say, Eunice.” “Eunice!” “She is a charming girl. Highly educated, good-looking”— “But so prim.” “Oh, that is but a suspicion of old maidism, which will wear off after a month or two of married life.” “Do you think she would make me a good wife?” “I am sure of it.” “So am I,” said Maurice, with a faint sneer. “She would look well at the head of my table; she would always be dressed to perfection; she would doubtless be an excellent mother; but there is one great bar to our union.” “And that is?” “We only love each other as cousins.” “It may grow into a warmer feeling.” “I’m certain it won’t; and, Rector,” continued Maurice, laying his hand on the old man’s arm, “could you advise me to have a mother-in-law like Mrs. Dengelton?” The Rector laughed heartily, and Maurice joined in his mirth, much to Carriston’s delight. “Ah, now you are more like the boy I knew!” he said, slipping his arm into that of Roylands, and leading him to the door; “did I not tell you I would cure you? I will complete the cure to-morrow.” “But it might give you pain.” “No, no; don’t think about that,” said Carriston hastily. “If I can do you a service, I don’t mind a passing twinge of regret. But here we are at the drawing-room door. Let us join the ladies.” “And Crispin.” “By the way,” said the Rector, placing his hand on Roylands as he was about to open the door, “who is Crispin?” “Every one in London has been trying to find that out for the last two years.” “What is he?” “The new poet; the coming Tennyson, the future Browning. No one knows who he is, or where he comes from. He is called Crispin _tout court_.” “A most perplexing person. Are you quite sure”—