o see the traces of
suffering there, she started at the ravages long days and nights of
study and deep grief had left behind them: his eyes were sunk, and
surrounded by dark circles, that made them seem quite buried beneath
his brows; his forehead traversed by a net-work of blue veins, had that
transparent thinness mental labour impresses, and his lips were thin and
colourless; while on each cheek a burning spot of red looked like the
mark of hectic. He made no answer; but the tears ran fast from his eyes,
and his mouth quivered as he tried to say something.

She sat down beside him on the same chair, and bending her head, till
the silken curls touched his very cheek, she spoke to him--not in words
of encouragement or good cheer, for such her own instinct told her were
inapplicable, but in the soft accents of affection, neither undervaluing
the source of his grief, nor yet suffering him to be carried away by his
own sense of his calamity. "Remember, my dear brother," said she, "you
are not less dear to our hearts for all this--remember that for
the casualties of the world, and its chances, we can only do our
utmost--that success is not for us to determine, but to strive for. Had
you won to-day, some other must now have grieved like you, and who can
tell if he could count as many fond and loving hearts to feel for and
console him."

"Oh, if you knew how I strived and longed--how I prayed for success,"
said he, in a voice almost stifled by convulsive throbs.

"And it will come yet, Herbert. The tree is only the more fruitful when
the knife has cut down to its very heart. Yours is not the nature to be
deterred by one repulse, nor yours the name to be stamped with failure,
because the contest is difficult. Ambitions are only noble when their
path is steep. Who knows how indolent you might have become, had you
found the prize too easily won. Come, come, Herbert, enough for the
past; look forward now, and with good courage and hope. The next
struggle will end differently; but, above all, wear a fair face before
the world. I remember some French prisoners being brought into Courtray,
who amused us so much by their gay and smiling air, and look of ease
and satisfaction--their secret was, that defeat was never disgrace,
save when it lowered the spirit, and made the heart droop. Theirs never
failed, and I promise you we thought all the better of them."

"But my uncle--who is to tell him----"

"Let _me_ tell him. I see you ha