“Would it comfort, or would it wound you to have a similar painting?  Tell me that.  When you are at Madagascar, or at the Cape, or in India, would it be a consolation to have that memento in your possession? or would the sight of it bring recollections calculated to enervate and distress?”

He now furtively raised his eyes:  he glanced at me, irresolute, disturbed:  he again surveyed the picture.

“That I should like to have it is certain:  whether it would be judicious or wise is another question.”

Since I had ascertained that Rosamond really preferred him, and that her father was not likely to oppose the match, I —­ less exalted in my views than St. John —­ had been strongly disposed in my own heart to advocate their union.  It seemed to me that, should he become the possessor of Mr. Oliver’s large fortune, he might do as much good with it as if he went and laid his genius out to wither, and his strength to waste, under a tropical sun.  With this persuasion I now answered —

“As far as I can see, it would be wiser and more judicious if you were to take to yourself the original at once.”

By this time he had sat down:  he had laid the picture on the table before him, and with his brow supported on both hands, hung fondly over it.  I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at my audacity.  I saw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he had deemed unapproachable —­ to hear it thus freely handled —­ was beginning to be felt by him as a new pleasure —­ an unhoped-for relief.  Reserved people often really need the frank discussion of their sentiments and griefs more than the expansive.  The sternest-seeming stoic is human after all; and to “burst” with boldness and good-will into “the silent sea” of their souls is often to confer on them the first of obligations.

“She likes you, I am sure,” said I, as I stood behind his chair, “and her father respects you.  Moreover, she is a sweet girl —­ rather thoughtless; but you would have sufficient thought for both yourself and her.  You ought to marry her.”

“Does she like me?” he asked.

“Certainly; better than she likes any one else.  She talks of you continually:  there is no subject she enjoys so much or touches upon so often.”

“It is very pleasant to hear this,” he said —­ “very:  go on for another quarter of an hour.”  And he actually took out his watch and laid it upon the table to measure the time.

“But where is the use of going on,” I asked, “when you are probably preparing some iron blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chain to fetter your heart?”