—if he had more practical power, more
knowledge of the world, and were less
dreamy and romantic; if he did not always
talk of the future so wildly, and with such
strange satisfaction; if, instead of imagining
himself a hero, he would be content to be
first a man, I should be kinder to him: but"
—and Magdalen looked up, with a full and
almost appealing look, into Horace's face—
"he wearies me! I am very, very sorry for
it. I would give all I have in the world not
to feel so wearied by him, but I cannot
help it. I love and respect him very
much." And Magdalen got up, and walked
away. " If," she then said, suddenly coming
back and standing before Horace, with
an expression and in an attitude sufficiently
passionate, "if he has told you to speak
to me, you may tell him in return what
I have said. My love for him will be
always in proportion to his own manliness
and common sense. If he continues as he
has been ever since poor papa's death, I shall
get to hate him. My husband must be a
man who can help and direct me, not a child
sobbing out melancholy bits of poetry."

Magdalen, as if she had uttered the most
tremendous secret, and committed the most
atrocious crime, rushed from the room to
her own chamber up-stairs; where, locking
the door, she flung herself on her knees, and,
for the first time since her arrest, fell into
such a passion of grief as she had never
yielded to in her life before.

Horace sat for a few moments shading his
eyes after she had left. Something in her
tone and manner had thrilled through him;
and, while wishing to condemn her, had
enlisted him on her side. She looked so strong
and beautiful, and he felt how far below
her Paul was; he understood also what
she must feel as a woman lately come to the
knowledge of her strength and of her lover's
weakness together. Horace pitied them
both; but he pitied Magdalen the more,
because he sympathised most with her. If
he had been a woman, perhaps he would have
pitied Paul.

"Ah, well! " said Horace half aloud,
rising from the sofa; " I dare say they will
get on better when they are once fairly
married. It is a terrible position for both, and
no one knows which is more to blame— for
certainly Paul is very tiresome, and Magdalen
is harsh," which was all that could be said
for and against both.

After this lecture from Horace, Magdalen,
by a visible effort over herself, was kinder to
Paul than she had been of late, and the boy
was consequently as wildly happy as he had
formerly been unreasonably in despair. But
Horace saw, by every sign which Magdalen
strove to hide, that his raptures bored her as
much as his complaints had done before; and
that the cause of their disunion lay deeper
than anything that Paul could do or undo
now. She was disenchanted, and saw their
want of moral likeness—perhaps she
exagerated it: but it was still there, and could
not be repaired. The effort of a few days
soon became too much for Magdalen: again
she relapsed into her old manner of
impatience and coldness, and again Paul became
heart-broken and hysterical.

Again Paul spoke to Horace-- again
besought his intercession; with such despair,
such ruin of hope and happiness; with such a
wrecked life, that Horace, strangely unwilling,
was forced, for mere pity's sake, to undertake
this most painful and unpleasant task. And,
as whatever he undertook he went through
with thoroughly, he spoke to Magdalen again
with even more decision, force, and distinctness
than before. And he told her plainly
that she was very wrong.

"Did Paul give you this mission?" said
Magdalen haughtily.

"He certainly spoke to me of your coldness
to him; but I have also seen it for myself,"
Horace said, not looking in her face.

"And may I ask what you advise—nay,
desire me to do? " said Magdalen, still in the
same manner.

"Be as kind to him as possible," said
Horace, stealing a glance into her flushing
face.

"And you—who, at least, are manly—can
say such a word to me for my future
husband! " exclaimed Magdalen bitterly. "Kind!
kind!-- the word you would use to a child,
or a slave, or a pet lap-dog! Kind to a man
who ought to stand as your ideal of good and
of power, to the being whom, next to God, you
ought to reverence and worship. Kind!-- he
asks his friend to plead with his obdurate
lover, and beg her to be kind!"

She looked at him with her proud head
flung back and her eyes as hard and as bright
as steel. Her lip did not curl, only her
nostrils dilated, and those glittering eyes
looked unutterable contempt—contempt even
of him. Then a dim softness came over
them; that cold glitter was lost in a deeper
and darker radiance—something that was
not a tear, but that softened them like
tears, stole up into them, as she looked
at him, steadily, but timidly. The pride of
that haughty head was gone, the swelling
throat relaxed and bent forward; and Horace
felt his own eyes grow dim and dark like
hers, as he met and returned her look. He
held out his hand, she laid hers in it, and he
pressed it warmly.

"Poor child! " he said, " poor child!"

A sigh, so deep and heart-sent, that,
despite her effort to suppress it, escaped from
her like a shivering kind of groan, awoke
her as from an instant's trance, and
she withdrew her hand hastily; turning
away from him. But a shadow had fallen
between them, and words, which the ear
never heard, had been spoken from heart to
heart. Horace started as if he had seen a
horrible vision, or heard unholy words, and,