"How had you ever lost that, Arthur?"
"By my own folly. I loved you when I came back—before I went away—always. It was a dream, a sweet, delicious dream—that inspired poetry, and kindled ambition, but was purely unselfish. I had not a thought or a hope of a return. This passion came to possess me, to occupy my mind, and absorb my whole being. I knew it could not in the nature of things be returned."
"Arthur!"
"And I rushed into your presence, and declared it, and received what I expected and needed—though it paralyzed me, but my pride came to my rescue, and what strength I had; I went away humiliated, and aroused myself and found places on which I could stand, and strength to work. So far as you were concerned, Julia, I only hoped that in the far future, if you ever recalled my mad words—"
"That did not fall in the dust under my feet, and were not forgotten, sir," interrupted Julia.
"Thank you, dearest—but if they should come to you, you would feel that they had not insulted you. I avoided you, of course, and had to avoid your mother. I would not see you, but you were ever about me, and became an inspiring power. I burned all the sketches I had made of you, but one, and that I mislaid."
"I found it. I am glad you lost it, you naughty child."
"Did you? Well, I went through the winter and spring, and the awful calamity of Henry's death, and the next fall and winter, and you wore away, and although I might not see you, your absence made Newbury a desert. And I felt it, when you came back. And when I got ready to go I could not. I set the time, sent off my trunk, and lingered. I even went one night past your father's house, only to see where you were, and yet I lingered; I found flowers on my brother's grave, and thought that some maiden loved him."
"When she loved you."
"That Wednesday night I would go, but couldn't."