th serious eyes. "I wonder whether you know
what's good for me--or whether you care."

"If I know depend upon it I care. Shall I tell you what it is? Not to
torment yourself."

"Not to torment you, I suppose you mean."

"You can't do that; I'm proof. Take things more easily. Don't ask
yourself so much whether this or that is good for you. Don't question
your conscience so much--it will get out of tune like a strummed
piano. Keep it for great occasions. Don't try so much to form your
character--it's like trying to pull open a tight, tender young rose.
Live as you like best, and your character will take care of itself. Most
things are good for you; the exceptions are very rare, and a comfortable
income's not one of them." Ralph paused, smiling; Isabel had listened
quickly. "You've too much power of thought--above all too much
conscience," Ralph added. "It's out of all reason, the number of things
you think wrong. Put back your watch. Diet your fever. Spread your
wings; rise above the ground. It's never wrong to do that."

She had listened eagerly, as I say; and it was her nature to understand
quickly. "I wonder if you appreciate what you say. If you do, you take a
great responsibility."

"You frighten me a little, but I think I'm right," said Ralph,
persisting in cheer.

"All the same what you say is very true," Isabel pursued. "You could say
nothing more true. I'm absorbed in myself--I look at life too much as
a doctor's prescription. Why indeed should we perpetually be thinking
whether things are good for us, as if we were patients lying in a
hospital? Why should I be so afraid of not doing right? As if it
mattered to the world whether I do right or wrong!"

"You're a capital person to advise," said Ralph; "you take the wind out
of my sails!"

She looked at him as if she had not heard him--though she was following
out the train of reflexion which he himself had kindled. "I try to
care more about the world than about myself--but I always come back to
myself. It's because I'm afraid." She stopped; her voice had trembled
a little. "Yes, I'm afraid; I can't tell you. A large fortune means
freedom, and I'm afraid of that. It's such a fine thing, and one should
make such a good use of it. If one shouldn't one would be ashamed. And
one must keep thinking; it's a constant effort. I'm not sure it's not a
greater happiness to be powerless."

"For weak people I've no doubt it's a greater happiness. For weak people
the