"Is there promise of fruit from that ?" "You...you are young, Mr.Barrett." "And on a young, forehead it may be written, 'Come not to gather more.'" Cornelia put her hand out: "Oh, Mr.Barrett! unsay it!" The nakedness of her spirit stood forth in a stinging tear.

"The words were cruel." "But, if they live, and are ?" "I feel that you must misjudge me.

When I wrote them...you cannot know! The misery of our domestic life was so bitter! And yet, I have no excuse, none! I can only ask for pity." "And if you are wretched, must not I be?
You pluck from me my last support.

This, I petitioned Providence to hear from you--that you would be happy! I can have no comfort but in that." "Happy!" Cornelia murmured the word musically, as if to suck an irony from the sweetness of the sound.

"Are we made for happiness ?" Mr.Barrett quoted the favourite sage, concluding: "But a brilliant home and high social duties bring consolation.