The old craving of the office silence comes back,—­not with the proud wish only of being a protector, but—­of being protected.  And whatever may be the trust in that beneficent Power who “chasteneth whom he loveth,” there is yet an earnest, human yearning toward some one, whose love—­most, and whose duty—­least, would call her to your side; whose soft hands would cool the fever of yours, whose step would wake a throb of joy, whose voice would tie you to life, and whose presence would make the worst of Death—­an Adieu!

As you gain strength once more, you go back to Nelly’s home.  Her kindness does not falter; every care and attention belong to you there.  Again your eye rests upon that figure of Madge, and upon her face, wearing an even gentler expression as she sees you sitting pale and feeble by the old hearth-stone.  She brings flowers—­for Nelly:  you beg Nelly to place them upon the little table at your side.  It is as yet the only taste of the country that you can enjoy.  You love those flowers.

After a time you grow strong, and walk in the fields.  You linger until nightfall.  You pass by the cottage where Madge lives.  It is your pleasantest walk.  The trees are greenest in that direction; the shadows are softest; the flowers are thickest.

It is strange—­this feeling in you.  It is not the feeling you had for Laura Dalton.  It does not even remind of that.  That was an impulse, but this is growth.  That was strong, but this is strength.  You catch sight of her little notes to Nelly; you read them over and over; you treasure them; you learn them by heart.  There is something in the very writing that touches you.

You bid her adieu with tones of kindness that tremble,—­and that meet a half-trembling tone in reply.  She is very good.

——­If it were not too late!

IV.

Manly Love.

And shall pride yield at length!

——­Pride!—­and what has love to do with pride?  Let us see how it is.

Madge is poor; she is humble.  You are rich; you are a man of the world; you are met respectfully by the veterans of fashion; you have gained perhaps a kind of brilliancy of position.

Would it then be a condescension to love Madge?  Dare you ask yourself such a question?  Do you not know—­in spite of your worldliness—­that the man or the woman, who condescends to love, never loves in earnest?

But again Madge is possessed of a purity, a delicacy, and a dignity that lift her far above you,—­that make you feel your weakness and your unworthiness; and it is the deep and the mortifying sense of this unworthiness that makes you bolster yourself upon your pride.  You know that you do yourself honor in loving such grace and goodness; you know that you would be honored tenfold more than you deserve in being loved by so much grace and goodness.