e replied, "is a word easily uttered; but could
you as easily prescribe to me a line of conduct to follow?"

"Of that, your conscience, if you have one," I answered
impatiently, "ought to inform you."

"Would you wish me," he returned with a sneer, "to feed birds
in the square half the day, and nurse sick people during the
other half? Shall I learn to make lint and choose
baby-clothes?"

"Oh no!" I exclaimed; "I never supposed for a single instant
that you could equal Alice, or do, in all your life, the good
that she does in one day; but if you showed her confidence and
kindness,--if you treated her as she ought to be treated..."

"She would love me,--which she does not now!"

"I am persuaded she does."

"No she does _not_," he answered, with some vehemence. "I do
not call that _love_ which never made the voice tremble, or
the heart beat. _Is_ that love which never betrays itself by
emotion, Ellen? Can _love_ leave the soul calm, and the
spirits unruffled?"

"Not yours--not mine, perhaps, Henry; but oh, let us not judge
purer and higher natures than ours, by the tests of our own
wayward and ill-governed minds. Indeed--indeed, Alice loves
you."

"She loves me as she loves her grandmother, her brother
Johnny, and half the children and the beggars in the square.
You must excuse me if that is not my notion of _love_. Do not
look so indignantly at me, Ellen; I speak bitterly, but it is
not against _her_ that I am bitter. I would give all I possess
at this moment that I could set her free, and send her out
into life once more, unshackled by hateful ties, and at
liberty to choose another destiny. But the die is cast; and
she and I must drag on existence together through the dreary
journey of life."

"But, Henry--dear Henry," I exclaimed, "why will you not try
to gain her love? If you do not think she loves you _now_, she
might--she would, if you sought it."

"And if she did? If that calm nature was roused into something
like feeling; if a spark of passion lighted on that frozen
surface; if, following my sister's blind advice, I sent out
that ignorant child into the world and society, to learn what
it is to love and to be loved; to hear that she is beautiful;
to be told that her husband ought to live in the light of her
eyes; ought to carry her in his heart, and prize each hair of
her head as a treasure of countless price. If she was to be
told all this, and then at home find his eyes averted, his
voice cold,