“My condition!  And now her door is locked to me!  We have spoken through the door, and that is all.  I stand sick and stupefied between two locked doors, neither of which will open, it appears, to give me the enlightenment I need more than medicine.”

“Dear me!” cried Dr. Middleton, “I am struck by your description of your position, Mr. Dale.  It would aptly apply to our humanity of the present generation; and were these the days when I sermonized, I could propose that it should afford me an illustration for the pulpit.  For my part, when doors are closed I try not their locks; and I attribute my perfect equanimity, health even, to an uninquiring acceptation of the fact that they are closed to me.  I read my page by the light I have.  On the contrary, the world of this day, if I may presume to quote you for my purpose, is heard knocking at those two locked doors of the secret of things on each side of us, and is beheld standing sick and stupefied because it has got no response to its knocking.  Why, sir, let the world compare the diverse fortunes of the beggar and the postman:  knock to give, and it is opened unto you:  knock to crave, and it continues shut.  I say, carry a letter to your locked door, and you shall have a good reception:  but there is none that is handed out.  For which reason . . .”

Mr. Dale swept a perspiring forehead, and extended his hand in supplication.  “I am an invalid, Dr. Middleton,” he said.  “I am unable to cope with analogies.  I have but strength for the slow digestion of facts.”

“For facts, we are bradypeptics to a man, sir.  We know not yet if nature be a fact or an effort to master one.  The world has not yet assimilated the first fact it stepped on.  We are still in the endeavour to make good blood of the fact of our being.”  Pressing his hands at his temples, Mr. Dale moaned:  “My head twirls; I did unwisely to come out.  I came on an impulse; I trust, honourable.  I am unfit—­I cannot follow you, Dr. Middleton.  Pardon me.”

“Nay, sir, let me say, from my experience of my countrymen, that if you do not follow me and can abstain from abusing me in consequence, you are magnanimous,” the Rev. Doctor replied, hardly consenting to let go the man he had found to indemnify him for his gallant service of acquiescing as a mute to the ladies, though he knew his breathing robustfulness to be as an East wind to weak nerves, and himself an engine of punishment when he had been torn for a day from his books.

Miss Eleanor said:  “The enlightenment you need, Mr. Dale?  Can we enlighten you?”

“I think not,” he answered, faintly.  “I think I will wait for Sir Willoughby . . . or Mr. Whitford.  If I can keep my strength.  Or could I exchange—­I fear to break down—­two words with the young lady who is, was . . .”

“Miss Middleton, my daughter, sir?  She shall be at your disposition; I will bring her to you.”  Dr. Middleton stopped at the window.  “She, it is true, may better know the mind of Miss Dale than I. But I flatter myself I know the gentleman better.  I think, Mr. Dale, addressing you as the lady’s father, you will find me a persuasive, I could be an impassioned, advocate in his interests.”