be an old fool.

Lionel Haughton glided through the disenchanted rooms, and breathed a
long breath of relief when he found himself in the friendless streets.

As he walked slow and thoughtful on, he suddenly felt a hand upon his
shoulder, turned, and saw Darrell.

"Give me your arm, my dear Lionel; I am tired out. What a lovely night!
What sweet scorn in the eyes of those stars that we have neglected for
yon flaring lights."

LIONEL.--"Is it scorn? is it pity? is it but serene indifference?"

DARRELL.--"As we ourselves interpret: if scorn be present in our own
hearts, it will be seen in the disc of Jupiter. Man, egotist though he
be, exacts sympathy from all the universe. Joyous, he says to the sun,
'Life-giver, rejoice with me.' Grieving, he says to the moon, 'Pensive
one, thou sharest my sorrow.' Hope for fame; a star is its promise!

"Mourn for the dead; a star is the land of reunion! Say to earth, 'I
have done with thee;' to Time, 'Thou hast nought to bestow;' and all
space cries aloud, 'The earth is a speck, thine inheritance infinity.
Time melts while thou sighest. The discontent of a mortal is the
instinct that proves thee immortal.' Thus construing Nature, Nature is
our companion, our consoler. Benign as the playmate, she lends herself
to our shifting humours. Serious as the teacher, she responds to the
steadier inquiries of reason. Mystic and hallowed as the priestess, she
keeps alive by dim oracles that spiritual yearning within us, in which,
from savage to sage,--through all dreams, through all creeds,--thrills
the sense of a link with Divinity. Never, therefore, while conferring
with Nature, is Man wholly alone, nor is she a single companion with
uniform shape. Ever new, ever various, she can pass from gay to severe,
from fancy to science,--quick as thought passes from the dance of a
leaf, from the tint of a rainbow, to the theory of motion, the problem
of light. But lose Nature, forget or dismiss her, make companions, by
hundreds, of men who ignore her, and I will not say with the poet,
'This is solitude.' But in the commune, what stale monotony, what weary
sameness!"

Thus Darrell continued to weave together sentence with sentence, the
intermediate connection of meaning often so subtle that when put down on
paper it requires effort to discern it. But it was his peculiar gift to
make clear when spoken what in writing would seem obscure. Look, manner,
each delicate accent in a voice wonderfully disti