“I cannot spare you!” I cried with sudden vehemence. “I tell you I cannot bear it—I tell you I shall go mad! This loneliness and this haunting perplexity—I swear to you that I cannot endure it any longer!” My brother sat gazing before him. After a moment I went on, more quietly, pleading with him. “Daniel,” I said, “you cannot ever persuade me that you must needs treat me as you have treated me since I came to this place. I came here to seek for you—for that purpose alone—and with love in my heart. And you keep me from you, you treat me as if I were not a human being!” “Stop, Edward!” cried my brother imploringly; “do not say such things as that! Ah! what can I tell you? How can I say it to you?—it is not enough that you should be a human being.” “Not enough!” I echoed. “Ah! do you suppose—can you suppose—that if this thing of which we speak were mine to give—if by losing it myself I could give it to you—can you suppose I would not do it, and do it with joy? All that love could make possible I would do—how much I would do I cannot tell you. But this that you ask of me—this I _cannot_ do!” “You mean”—I clung to the argument with my scientific instinct—“you mean that there is in your own life, in your own mind, certain things which could be conveyed to another’s?” “I do,” he said. “But the use of words——” I began. “No words could have any relation to this,” he said. “But ideas, Daniel!” I protested. “There may be ideas in the mind for which we can find no words, but surely we can approximate them, we can foreshadow them.” “There are some things in my mind that are not ideas,” was the quick reply. “I do not understand that,” I exclaimed. “I know it,” said my brother; “that is the point.” “But,” I cried in vexation, “but what could such things be? How can one think——” “‘In that high hour thought was not,’” my brother quoted. I sat silent, and a long pause followed. Then I began once more: “Let me ask you, Daniel; perhaps you do not understand how difficult it is for one mind to believe that it cannot grasp what is in another mind. But this—this knowledge to which you have come—you must surely have come to it by degrees, by a process?” “Yes,” said he. “And of that—surely you could explain to me at least the beginning, which might help me to divine in what the difference consists?” He answered nothing for a moment; I went on quickly: “Ah, I fear that there must be another reason that you do not realise. Might it not be true that you would find it easier to explain to another than to me? Is it not at all that you shrink from my ways of thinking? Is it not that you know that I have never understood your art?” “Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “what have you thought about me since you have been here?” “What difference does it make what I think?” I cried. “What data have I for thinking anything? I know that I am in the presence of something which haunts me; and also that I have never been more wretched in my life.