g to
the hope that Thyrza might reappear in her home some night. To go away
would be to say good-bye for ever to that dream which had so glorified
a few months of his life, and in spite of all he could not do that.

In comparison with his own, the suffering of others seemed trifling.
When his mother went about in silence, bending more than she had done,
all interest in the things of life and in her studies of Swedenborg at
an end, he thought that much of it was due to her wish to show sympathy
with him. When Lydia sat through an hour with her face hidden in her
hands, he knew that the day had been very dark and weary with her, but
said in himself that a sister's love was little compared with such as
his. He would not reason on what had happened, save when to do so with
Lydia brought him comfort; alone, he brooded over his hope. It was the
only way to save himself from madness.

On the day after seeing Egremont he received a long letter from him.
Egremont wrote from his heart, and with a force of sincerity which must
have swept away any doubts, had such still lingered with the reader.
The inevitable antagonism of the personal interview was a pain in his
memory; if the intercourse of friendship was for ever at an end for
them, he could not bear to part in this way, with hesitating words,
with doubts and reticences. 'In your bitter misery,' he said, 'you may
accuse me of affecting sympathy which I do not feel, and may scorn my
expressions of grief as a cheap way of saving my self-respect. I will
not compare my suffering with yours, but none the less it is intense.
This is the first great sorrow of my life, and I do not think a keener
one will ever befall me. Keep this letter by you; do not be content to
read it once and throw it aside, for I have spoken to you out of my
deepest feeling, and in time you will do me more justice than you can
now.' And further on: 'As to that which has parted us, there must be no
ambiguity, no pretence of superhuman generosity. I should lie if I said
that I do not wish to find Thyrza for my own sake. If I find her, I
shall ask her to be my wife. I wanted to say this when we spoke
together, but could not; neither was I calm enough to express this
rightly, nor you rightly to hear it.'

Gilbert allowed a day or two to go by, then made answer. He wrote
briefly, but enough to show Egremont that the man's natural nobility
could triumph over his natural resentment. It was a moving letter, its
path