“My words seem rough,” he said, “but truly they are not so.  I repeat, your soul is frightened—­yes! frightened at the close approach of God!  God is never so near to us as in a great sorrow; and when we feel His presence almost within sight and touch, we are afraid.  But we must not give way to fear; we must not grovel in the dust and hide ourselves as if we were ashamed!  We must rise up and grow accustomed to His glory, and let Him lead us where He will!”

He paused, for Angela was weeping.  The sound of her low sobbing smote him to the heart.

“Angela—­Angela!” he whispered, more to himself than to her.  “Have I hurt you so much?”

“Yes, yes!” she murmured between her tears.  “You have hurt me!—­but you are right—­you are quite right!  I am selfish—­weak—­cowardly—­ ungrateful too;—­but forgive me,—­have patience with me!—­I will try—­I will try to bear it all more bravely—­I will indeed!”

He rose from her side and paced the room, not trusting himself to speak.  She looked at him anxiously and endeavoured to control her sobs.

“You are angry?”

“Angry!” He came back, and lifting her suddenly, but gently like a little child, he placed her in an easy sitting position, leaning cosily among her pillows.  “Come!” he said smiling, as the colour flushed her cheeks at the swiftness of his action—­“Let the Princesse D’Agramont see that I am something of a doctor!  You will grow weaker and weaker lying down all day—­I want to make you strong again!  Will you help me?”

He looked into her eyes, and her own fell before his earnest, reverent, but undisguisedly tender glance.

“I will try to do what you wish,” she said.  “If I fail you must forgive me—­but I will honestly try!”

“If you try, you will succeed”—­said Cyrillon, and bending down, he kissed the trembling little hands—­“Ah! forgive me!  If you knew how dear your life is—­to—­to many, you would not waste it in weeping for what cannot be remedied by all your tears!  I will not say one word against the man you loved—­for you do not say it, and you are the most injured;—­he is dead—­let him rest;—­but life claims you,—­ claims me for the moment;—­our fellow-men and women claim our attention, our work, our doing for the best and greatest while we can,—­our duty is to them,—­not to ourselves!  Will you for your father’s sake—­for the world’s sake—­if I dared say, for my sake!—­ will you throw off this torpor of sorrow?  Only you can do it,—­only you yourself can command the forces of your own soul!  Be Angela once more!—­the guiding angel of more lives than you know of!—­”

His voice sank to a pleading whisper.

“I will try!” she answered in a low voice—­“I promise!—­”

And when the Princess D’Agramont entered she was surprised and overjoyed to find her patient sitting up on her couch for the first time in many days, talking quietly with the Perseus she had sent to rescue the poor Andromeda from the jaws of a brooding Melancholia which might have ended in madness or death.  With her presence the conversation took a lighter tone—­and by-and-by Angela found herself listening with some interest to the reading of her father’s last letter addressed to her kind hostess.