It often amazed me, however, that Hollingsworth should show himself so recklessly tender towards Priscilla, and never once seem to think of the effect which it might have upon her heart.  But the man, as I have endeavored to explain, was thrown completely off his moral balance, and quite bewildered as to his personal relations, by his great excrescence of a philanthropic scheme.  I used to see, or fancy, indications that he was not altogether obtuse to Zenobia’s influence as a woman.  No doubt, however, he had a still more exquisite enjoyment of Priscilla’s silent sympathy with his purposes, so unalloyed with criticism, and therefore more grateful than any intellectual approbation, which always involves a possible reserve of latent censure.  A man—­poet, prophet, or whatever he may be—­readily persuades himself of his right to all the worship that is voluntarily tendered.  In requital of so rich benefits as he was to confer upon mankind, it would have been hard to deny Hollingsworth the simple solace of a young girl’s heart, which he held in his hand, and smelled too, like a rosebud.  But what if, while pressing out its fragrance, he should crush the tender rosebud in his grasp!

As for Zenobia, I saw no occasion to give myself any trouble.  With her native strength, and her experience of the world, she could not be supposed to need any help of mine.  Nevertheless, I was really generous enough to feel some little interest likewise for Zenobia.  With all her faults (which might have been a great many besides the abundance that I knew of), she possessed noble traits, and a heart which must, at least, have been valuable while new.  And she seemed ready to fling it away as uncalculatingly as Priscilla herself.  I could not but suspect that, if merely at play with Hollingsworth, she was sporting with a power which she did not fully estimate.  Or if in earnest, it might chance, between Zenobia’s passionate force and his dark, self-delusive egotism, to turn out such earnest as would develop itself in some sufficiently tragic catastrophe, though the dagger and the bowl should go for nothing in it.

Meantime, the gossip of the Community set them down as a pair of lovers.  They took walks together, and were not seldom encountered in the wood-paths:  Hollingsworth deeply discoursing, in tones solemn and sternly pathetic; Zenobia, with a rich glow on her cheeks, and her eyes softened from their ordinary brightness, looked so beautiful, that had her companion been ten times a philanthropist, it seemed impossible but that one glance should melt him back into a man.  Oftener than anywhere else, they went to a certain point on the slope of a pasture, commanding nearly the whole of our own domain, besides a view of the river, and an airy prospect of many distant hills.  The bond of our Community was such, that the members had the privilege of building cottages for their own residence within our precincts, thus laying a hearthstone and fencing in a home private and peculiar to all desirable extent, while yet the inhabitants should continue to share the advantages of an associated life.  It was inferred that Hollingsworth and Zenobia intended to rear their dwelling on this favorite spot.