her books to read,
and was often charmed with the truth and simplicity of the remarks she
would make. She had been earning her living as a clerk, had no friends
in London, and therefore no place to betake herself to in her illness
but the hospital. The day she left it, in the simplicity of her heart,
and with much timidity, she gave him a chain she had made for him of her
hair. On the ground of supplementary attention, partly desirable, partly
a pretext, but unassociated with any evil intent, he visited her after
in her lodging. The joy of her face, the light of her eyes when he
appeared, was enchanting to him. She pleased every gentle element of his
nature; her worship flattered him, her confidence bewitched him. His
feelings toward her were such that he never doubted he was her friend.
He did her no end of kindness; taught her much; gave her good advice as
to her behavior, and the dangers she was in; would have protected her
from every enemy, real and imaginary, while all the time, undesignedly,
he was depriving her of the very nerve of self-defense. He still gave
her books--and good books--Carlyle even, and Tennyson; read poetry with
her, and taught her to read aloud; went to her chapel with her sometimes
of a Sunday evening--for he was then, so he said, and so he imagined, a
thorough believer in revelation. He took her to the theater, to
pictures, to concerts, taking every care of her health, her manners, her
principles. But one enemy he forgot to guard her against: how is a man
to protect even the woman he loves from the hidden god of his
idolatry--his own grand contemptible self?

It is needless to set the foot of narration upon every step of the
slow-descending stair. With all his tender feelings and generous love of
his kind, Paul Faber had not yet learned the simplest lesson of
humanity--that he who would not be a murderer, must be his brother's
keeper--still more his sister's, protecting every woman first of all
from himself--from every untruth in him, chiefly from every unhallowed
approach of his lower nature, from every thing that calls itself love
and is but its black shadow, its demon ever murmuring _I love_, that it
may devour. The priceless reward of such honesty is the power to love
better; but let no man insult his nature by imagining himself noble for
so carrying himself. As soon let him think himself noble that he is no
swindler. Doubtless Faber said to himself as well as to her, and said it
yet ofte