when my cousin's sensitive countenance would brighten at his bright
thoughts, or burst forth into a merry laugh at his brilliant wit and ready
repartee; or how often the iron has entered into my soul when I have seen
her hang on his arm, and listen in breathless attention to his lightest
word, and testify in a thousand ways her pleasure at his coming, and in
his presence. And _he_, he looked on me with the most immovable
indifference. He did not seem to consider me worthy of his attention; even
as a rival. He went straight forward, calmly and quietly, as though I had
not existed; and if he ever glanced at my pretensions, it was perhaps with
a smile of confident success. I knew he loved her; I fancied that she
loved him, and I hated them both for it.

I went into my office one day--if it were not part of the dream I would
not tell it--in a state of partial insanity. I knew, saw, heard, felt
nothing but one unalterable purpose of revenge. There happened to be a
small pistol lying in the back room; I took it up, and carefully loaded
it; loaded it without the tremor of a single muscle, for my heart was
lead. I put it into my pocket, and walked the streets up and down, an hour
or two, or it may have been four hours. I did not take count of the time.
The heavens reeled above me, and the earth reeled beneath. At last he
came. A thrill, the first that day, a thrill of triumph ran through my
whole frame. When we met I stopped and took hold of the pistol in my
pocket, but had not power to draw my hand out again; the strings of
volition seemed broken. He stopped also; looked at me in some surprise;
made a remark that I 'did not appear to be well,' and passed on. I looked
after him, sick at heart with revenge deferred, and cursed my own
pusillanimity.

Well, well, we will let that pass. I had yielded my soul to the Author of
Hatred for a time; but we will let it pass, and strive to forget it; I
have been trying to ever since; I hope I shall succeed better in future.
It is pleasant if we can think that the results of our evil passions do
not extend beyond ourselves; and to me, it is pleasant to think that I did
not break my gentle cousin's heart, by letting her know that she had
nearly driven me mad.

It was a month after this. How the intervening time had been spent, in
what thoughts, and hopes, and fears, it would not be profitable to tell,
or to recollect. I was sitting one evening by my cousin's side; it was
growing late, and