“Richard,” said Barbara--it was the first time she called him by his name--“did anybody in the world ever do all he might to make his best friends happy?” “No, miss, I don't think it. There must always be something more he might have done.” “Then the better people become, the more lamentations, mourning, and woe”--the words had taken hold of her at church the Sunday before--“there must always be, because of those they shall never look upon again, those to whom they shall never say, _I am sorry_! How comes it that men are born into a world where there is nothing of what they most need--consolation for the one inevitable thing, sorrow and self-reproach?” “There is consolation--that it will soon be over, that we go to them!” “Go to them!” cried Barbara. “--We do not even go to look for them! We shall not even know that we would find them if we could! We shall not have even the consolation of suffering, of loving on in vain! The whole thing is the most wrongful scorn, the most insulting mockery!--the laughter of a devil at all that is noble and tender!--only there is not even a devil to be angry with and defy!” Barbara spoke with an indignation that made her eloquent. Richard gave her no answer: there was no logic in what Barbara said--nothing to reply to! Why should life not be misery? Why should there be any one who cared? There was no ground for thinking there might be one! The proof was all the other way! The idea was too good to be true! Richard had said so to himself a thousand times. But was the world indeed on such a grand scale that to believe in anything better or other than it seemed, was to believe too much--was to believe more than, without proof which was not to be had, Richard would care to believe? The nature of the case grew clearer to him. As a man does not fear death while yet it seems far away, so a man may not shrink from annihilation while yet he does not realize what it means. To cease may well seem nothing to a man who neither loves much, nor feels the bitterness of regret for wrong done, the gnawing of that remorse whose mother is tenderness! He was beginning to understand this. The silence grew oppressive. It was as if each was dreaming of the other dead. To break the pain of presence without communion, Richard spoke. “Can you tell me, miss,” he said, “why Alice went away without letting me know? She might have done that!” “She had a good reason,” answered Barbara. “I can't think what it could be!” he returned. “I never was so long without seeing her before, but surely she could not be so much offended at that! You see, miss, I knew you went every day! and I knew I should like that better than having any one else to come and see me! so I gave myself no trouble. I never thought of her going for a long time yet! Did her mother send her money?” “Not that I know of.” “Perhaps my grandfather lent her some! She couldn't have any herself! I wonder why she dislikes me so much!”