"He bent and kissed my hand, thus releasing it from his clasp. It seemed as if some of my strength went out as he did this. The intense eloquence of this man had inspired me for the time, now I was weak and silent. "'Tell me,' he said, 'what particular passages you disliked in my poor volume.' "I could not answer; the book itself had gone out of my mind. I had only power to think of the man who stood before me, with that earnest protest burning on his lip, and those eyes, dark and luminous, bent upon me. I think that he did not observe my trepidation. He was carried away by a wish to protect the offspring of his brain from misconception or censure. I had read the volume hastily, and found it too brilliantly intense for the idle lassitude of my humor. It had startled me into more thought than I cared to exercise. The quiet of my home seemed like dulness after reading it. Now this man, its author, had come and completed the discontent his book had engendered. I had never seen a man of his class before, and to me the charm of novelty and romance surrounded him with a sort of glory. "'Tell me,' he repeated, 'in what a thought of mine could have offended a creature so lovely and so rich in talent.' "Was he mocking me because of my absurd criticism? I looked up suddenly, and met the full glance of those eyes. The blood rushed to my face, and my eyelids drooped. "'You will not help me to amend a fault,' he said, in a tone of reproach. "'Because I cannot. It was no particular thought--no description in itself that disturbed me; but, if I may so express it, the entire atmosphere of the book. It made me unhappy.' "I was driven to desperate frankness by his persistency, and spoke out almost with tears in my eyes. "'Then some thought in the volume, or the narrative itself, struck upon your heart, or disturbed your conscience?' he answered, in a low voice. "I started. Was this true? "'Perhaps some points of the story were not unlike your own experience?' he continued. "I felt the tears starting to my eyes. Yes, he was right. It was a sense of the barrenness of my own future that had made me so restless. If the volume had produced this effect, how much greater was the disturbance when its author stood by my side, with looks and voice more eloquent than his writings. He waited in silence for my answer; it only came in low sobs. "'Forgive me; I have wounded you unthinkingly.' "His voice was like that of a penitent man in prayer; his face grew earnest and sad. "'Look on me, and say that I am forgiven.'