go back to his place, where sorrow
and he could dwell at peace together. He would still go, for he
cherished one of those nervous ideas common with sick men, that he could
breathe there and nowhere else; but he hated the place that was now rife
with memories far more unrestful and galling than memories of the dead
can ever be.

He hugged to himself no flattering delusion; in his judgment Sissy had
shown herself heartless and cruel; but he did not therefore argue, as a
man of politer mind might have done, that the girl he had loved had
never existed, that he had loved an idea and, finding it had no
resemblance to the reality, he was justified in casting away both, and
turning to luxurious disappointment or to a search for some more worthy
recipient of the riches of his heart. No such train of reasoning
occurred to him. He had thought Sissy was good and unfortunate; he had
found her fortunate and guilty of an almost greater degree of
callousness than he could forgive; but, nevertheless, Sissy was the
person he loved--his little girl, whom he had brought up, his big girl,
in whom he centred all his hopes of happy home and of years of mature
affection. Sissy was still alive, and he could not endure to think of
her living on wholly separated from him. For this reason his mind had no
rest in the thought of remaining where he was, or of returning whence he
had come, or in the dream of seeking new places. He could think of no
satisfaction except that of being near to her and making her a better
girl; yet he had promised to have no dealings with her; and not only
that, but he now at length perceived the futility of all such care as he
might exercise over her. He had thought to shield her by his knowledge
of the world, and he had found that she, by natural common sense, had a
better knowledge of the world than he by experience; he had thought to
protect her by his strong arm, and he had found himself flung off, as
she might have flung a feeble thing that clung to her for protection.
She was better able to take care of herself in the world than he had
been to take care of her, and she did not want his tenderness. Yet he
loved her just as he had ever done, and perceived, in the deep well of
his heart's love and pity, that she did, in sooth, need something--a
tenderer heart it might be--need it more terribly than he had ever
fancied need till now. He longed unspeakably to give her this--this
crown of womanhood, which she lacked, and