vealing my want of
sentiment.

"Don't be stupid. You are not so blind as you pretend."

"Well, if I am not so blind as I pretend, though I did not pretend to be
blind, I suppose that is mainly her concern."

"But I wish she had cared for Lyon."

"Perhaps Lyon did not care for her," I suggested.

"You never see anything. Lyon was a noble fellow."

"I didn't deny that. But how was I to know about Lyon, my dear? I never
heard you say that you were glad he wasn't your husband."

"Don't be silly. I think Henderson has very serious intentions."

"I hope he isn't frivolous," I said.

"Well, you are. It isn't a joking matter--and you pretend to be so fond
of Margaret!"

"So that is another thing I pretend? What do you want me to do? Which
one do you want me to make my enemy by telling him or her that the other
isn't good enough?"

"I don't want you to do anything, except to be reasonable, and
sympathize."

"Oh, I sympathize all round. I assure you I've no doubt you are quite
right." And in this way I crawled out of the discussion, as usual.

What a pretty simile it is, comparing life to a river, because rivers
are so different! There are the calm streams that flow eagerly from the
youthful sources, join a kindred flood, and go placidly to the sea, only
broadening and deepening and getting very muddy at times, but without
a rapid or a fall. There are others that flow carelessly in the upper
sunshine, begin to ripple and dance, then run swiftly, and rush into
rapids in which there is no escape (though friends stand weeping and
imploring on the banks) from the awful plunge of the cataract. Then
there is the tumult and the seething, the exciting race and rage through
the canon, the whirlpools and the passions of love and revelations of
character, and finally, let us hope, the happy emergence into the lake
of a serene life. And the more interesting rivers are those that have
tumults and experiences.

I knew well enough before the next day was over that it was too late for
the rescue of Margaret or Henderson. They were in the rapids, and
would have rejected any friendly rope thrown to draw them ashore. And
notwithstanding the doubts of my wife, I confess that I had so much
sympathy with the genuineness of it that I enjoyed this shock of two
strong natures rushing to their fate. Was it too sudden? Do two living
streams hesitate when they come together? When they join they join, and
mingle and reconcile themselves aft