ll wrong, and was perhaps
playing the fool unwittingly; and I began gently to withdraw myself from
his arms--but he eagerly snatched me closer.

"No--no--Jane; you must not go. No--I have touched you, heard you, felt
the comfort of your presence--the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot
give up these joys. I have little left in myself--I must have you. The
world may laugh--may call me absurd, selfish--but it does not signify. My
very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly
vengeance on its frame."

"Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so."

"Yes--but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I understand
another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and
chair--to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate
heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for
those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I
should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for you: do you think so?
Come--tell me."

"I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if
you think it better."

"But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young--you must marry
one day."

"I don't care about being married."

"You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try to make
you care--but--a sightless block!"

He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful,
and took fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where
the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite
relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of
conversation.

"It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you," said I, parting his
thick and long uncut locks; "for I see you are being metamorphosed into a
lion, or something of that sort. You have a 'faux air' of Nebuchadnezzar
in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles'
feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds' claws or not, I have
not yet noticed."

"On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails," he said, drawing the
mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. "It is a mere
stump--a ghastly sight! Don't you think so, Jane?"

"It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes--and the scar of
fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving
you too well for all this; and making too much of you."

"I thought