ght. No, you shall not get down here; I will
drive you up to the Terrace."

He drove her home, and she went upstairs to lie down.

"Commonplace rubbish!" she said to herself; "what I used to hear at Miss
Ponsonby's, but dressed up a little better, the moral prosing of an old
man of sixty who never knew what it was to have his pulse stirred;
utterly incapable of understanding Mr. Cardew, one of whose ideas moves
me more than volumes of Turnbull copybook."

Pulse stirred! The young are often unjust to the old in the matter of
pulsation, and the world in general is unjust to those who prefer to be
silent, or to whom silence is a duty. Dr. Turnbull's pulse was
unmistakably stirred on a certain morning thirty years ago, when he crept
past a certain door in Bloomsbury Square very early. The blinds were
still all drawn down, but he lingered and walked past the house two or
three times. He had come there to take a last look at the bricks and
mortar of that house before he went to Eastthorpe, under vow till death
to permit no word of love to pass his lips, to be betrayed into no
emotion warmer than that of man to man. His pulse was stirred, too, when
he read the announcement of her marriage in the _Times_ five years
afterwards, and then in a twelvemonth the birth of her first child. How
he watched for that birth! Ten days afterwards she died. He went to the
funeral, and after the sorrowing husband and parents had departed he
remained, and the most scalding tears shed by the grave were his. It was
not exactly moral prosing, but rather inextinguishable fire just covered
with a sprinkling of grey ash.

With that dreadful capacity which some people possess, for the
realisation of that which is not present, the parting with Mr. Cardew
came before Catharine as she shut her eyes on her pillow: the arm was
behind her--she actually felt it; his eyes were on hers; she was on fire,
and once more, as she had done before, she cursed herself for what she
almost called her cowardice in leaving him. She wrestled with her
fancies, turned this way and that way; at times they sent the blood hot
into her face, and she rose and plunged it into cold water. She was
weary, but sleep was impossible. "Commonplace rubbish!" she repeated:
"of what use is it to me?" She was young. When we grow old we find that
what is commonplace is true. _We must learn to bear our troubles
patiently_, says the copper-plate line for small text, and the re