n the hope of any
news of her, but because there dwelt the only professional friend he had
in the neighborhood--one who sympathized with his view of things, and
would not close his heart against him because he did not believe that
this horrid, ugly, disjointed thing of a world had been made by a God of
love. Generally, he had been in the habit of dwelling on the loveliness
of its developments, and the beauty of the gradual adaptation of life to
circumstance; but now it was plainer to him than ever, that, if made at
all, it was made by an evil being; "--for," he said, and said truly, "a
conscious being without a heart must be an evil being." This was the
righteous judgment of a man who could, by one tender, consoling word,
have made the sun rise upon a glorious world of conscious womanhood, but
would not say that word, and left that world lying in the tortured chaos
of a slow disintegration. This conscious being with a heart, this Paul
Faber, who saw that a God of love was the only God supposable, set his
own pride so far above love, that his one idea was, to satisfy the
justice of his outraged dignity by the torture of the sinner!--even
while all the time dimly aware of rebuke in his soul. If she should have
destroyed herself, he said once and again as he rode, was it more than a
just sacrifice to his wronged honor? As such he would accept it. If she
had, it was best--best for her, and best for him! What so much did it
matter! She was very lovely!--true--but what was the quintessence of
dust to him? Where either was there any great loss? He and she would
soon be wrapped up in the primal darkness, the mother and grave of all
things, together!--no, not together; not even in the dark of nothingness
could they two any more lie together! Hot tears forced their way into
his eyes, whence they rolled down, the lava of the soul, scorching his
cheeks. He struck his spurs into Ruber fiercely, and rode madly on.

At length he neared the outskirts of Broughill. He had ridden at a
fearful pace across country, leaving all to his horse, who had carried
him wisely as well as bravely. But Ruber, although he had years of good
work left in him, was not in his first strength, and was getting
exhausted with his wild morning. For, all the way, his master,
apparently unconscious of every thing else, had been immediately aware
of the slightest slackening of muscle under him, the least faltering of
the onward pace, and, in the temper of the savag