“Do it if you like, at your own peril, not on my responsibility,” she answered. Then, with a sudden change of subject, she went on: “After all, he has flung away what would have served him better than the poor, pale flower he kept.

What can Priscilla do for him? Put passionate warmth into his heart, when it shall be chilled with frozen hopes? Strengthen his hands, when they are weary with much doing and no performance? No! but only tend towards him with a blind, instinctive love, and hang her

little, puny weakness for a clog upon his arm! She cannot even give him such sympathy as is worth the name. For will he never, in many an hour of darkness, need that proud intellectual sympathy which he might have had from me? — the sympathy that would flash light along his