She sighed heavily, as if unpleasant images were forcing themselves upon her mind.  I felt that I might follow up the impression I had made, and resumed: 

There was a time, Delia—­and it lies only three or four short years backward on your path of life—­when I read in your opening mind a promise of higher things than have yet been attained—­you must pardon the freedom of an old but true friend.  A time when thought, taste, feeling were all building for themselves a habitation, the stones whereof were truths, and the decorations within and without pure and good affections.  All this—­“I glanced at the rich furniture, mirrors, and curtains—­“is poor and mean to that dwelling place of the soul, the foundations for which you once commenced laying.  Are you happier now than then?  Have the half bewildering experiences through which you have passed satisfied you that you are in the right way?  That life’s highest blessings are to be found in these pageantries?  Think, think, my dear young friend!  Look inwards.  Search into your heart, and try the quality of its motives.  Examine the foundation upon which you are building, and if it is sand, in heaven’s name stop, and look for solid earth on which to place the corner stone of your temple of happiness.”

“You bewilder me, Doctor,” she said, in reply to this.  “I can’t think, I can’t look inwards.  If I am building on a sandy foundation, God help me!—­for I cannot turn back to search for the solid earth of which you speak.”

“But—­”

She raised her hand and said,

“Spare me, Doctor.  I know you are truthful and sincere—­a friend who may be trusted—­but you cannot see as I see, nor know as I know.  I have chosen my way, and must walk in it, even to the end, let it terminate as it will.  I had once a dream of other things—­a sweet, entrancing dream while it lasted—­but to me it can never be more than a dream.  There are quiet, secluded, peaceful ways in life, and happy are they who are content to walk in them.  But they are not for my feet, and I do not envy those who hide themselves in tranquil valleys, or linger on the distant hill-slopes.  The crowd, the hum, the shock of social life for me!”

“But this you cannot have in S——.  And is it not the part of a wise woman—­”

“Again, Doctor, let me beg of you to spare me.” she said, lifting her hands, and turning her face partly away.  “I only half comprehend you, and am hurt and disturbed by your well-meant suggestions.  I am not a wise woman, in your sense of the word, and cannot take your admonitions to heart.  Let us talk of something else.”

And she changed the subject, as well as her whole manner and expression of countenance, with a promptness that surprised me; showing the existence of will and self-control that in a right direction would have given her large power for good.

It was the first and last time I ventured to speak with her so freely.  Always afterwards, when we met, there was an impression of uneasiness on her part, as if she had an unpleasant remembrance, or feared that I would venture upon some disagreeable theme.