"I should prune and explain my speech. By a devil, I did not mean a malicious imp of darkness, wholly bent on evil. I meant nothing more than certain impulses and emotions,--passions, if I may call them so,--very turbulent tenants, yet of admirable use when well dealt with. These were the devil whom I used to see in you, and whom I see still." "I shall tremble at myself." "Then you are not so brave as you were when you leaped the fallen tree at New Baden. Your demon has ceased to have an alarming look. I think you have turned him to good account. Shall I illustrate from the legends of the saints?" "In any way you please; but I should never have expected you to resort to so pious a source." "St. Bernard, crossing the Alps on some holy errand, was met by Satan, who, being anxious to prevent his journey, broke one of his carriage wheels. But St. Bernard caught him, sprinkled him with holy water, doubled him into a wheel, and put him upon the carriage in place of the broken one. The legend says that he answered the purpose admirably, and bore the saint safely to the end of his journey." "Your legend is absurd enough; but I think I catch your meaning, and wish I could think you wholly in the right. It is singular that you and I have never met without our conversation becoming personal to ourselves. We are always studying each other--always trying to penetrate each other's thoughts." "On one side, at least, the success has been complete. As you look at me, I feel that you are reading me like a book, from title page to finis." "You greatly overrate my penetration. I am conscious, at this moment, of movements in your mind which I do not understand." "And would you have me confess them to you?" "You might repent it afterwards; and that would make a breach between us." "You are a miraculous woman, to postpone your curiosity to a scruple like that. No, I would not have spoken of confession, if I should ever repent it. Do you know, I would rather open my mind to you than to any one else I am now acquainted with." "But you have male friends; very old and intimate ones." "Excellent in their way; but I would as soon confess to my horse. Find me a woman of sense, with a brain to discern, a heart to feel, passion to feel vehemently, and principle to feel rightly, and I will show her my mind; or, if not, I will show it to no one. Now, after this preamble, you have a right to think that I should begin to confess something at once. But first, I will ask you a question." "What is it?" "Tell me what effect you think any long and severe suffering ought to have on a man--something, I mean, that would bring him to the brink of despair, and keep him there for months and years." "What kind of man do you mean?" "Suppose one given over to pleasure, ambition, or any other engrossing pursuit not too disinterested." "It would depend on how the suffering was taken." "Suppose him resolved to make the best of a bad bargain."