“I am not a hypocrite,” he went on rapidly, as if driven to speak in spite of himself. “I try to be what I seem, but it is too hard sometimes and I despair. Especially hard is it to feel that I have learned to feign happiness so well that others are entirely deceived. Mr. Power and mother know me as I am: other friends I have not, unless you will let me call you one. Whether you do or not after this, I respect you too much to let you delude yourself about my virtues, so I tell you the truth and abide the consequences.” He looked up at her as he paused, with a curious mixture of pride and humility in his face, and squared his broad shoulders as if he had thrown off a burden that had much oppressed him. Christie offered him her hand, saying in a tone that did his heart good: “The consequences are that I respect, admire, and trust you more than ever, and feel proud to be your friend.” David gave the hand a strong and grateful pressure, said, “Thank you,” in a moved tone, and then leaned back into the shadow, as if trying to recover from this unusual burst of confidence, won from him by the soft magic of time, place, and companionship. Fearing he would regret the glimpse he had given her, and anxious to show how much she liked it, Christie talked on to give him time to regain composure. “I always thought in reading the lives of saints or good men of any time, that their struggles were the most interesting and helpful things recorded. Human imperfection only seems to make real piety more possible, and to me more beautiful; for where others have conquered I can conquer, having suffered as they suffer, and seen their hard-won success. That is the sort of religion I want; something to hold by, live in, and enjoy, if I can only get it.” “I know you will.” He said it heartily, and seemed quite calm again; so Christie obeyed the instinct which told her that questions would be good for David, and that he was in the mood for answering them. “May I ask you something,” she began a little timidly. “Any thing, Christie,” he answered instantly. “That is a rash promise: I am a woman, and therefore curious; what shall you do if I take advantage of the privilege?” “Try and see.” “I will be discreet, and only ask one thing,” she replied, charmed with her success. “You said just now that you had learned to feign happiness. I wish you would tell me how you do it, for it is such an excellent imitation I shall be quite content with it till I can learn the genuine thing.” David fingered the troublesome forelock thoughtfully for a moment, then said, with something of the former impetuosity coming back into his voice and manner: “I will tell you all about it; that’s the best way: I know I shall some day because I can’t help it; so I may as well have done with it now, since I have begun. It is not interesting, mind you,—only a grim little history of one man’s fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil: will you have it?”