“You have a sick headache, dear mamsie. Do go to bed. Shall I help you? No? Well, then, I will go myself. For I am tired, and so forth.”
She went off with a kiss, and an airy recommendation to follow her good example; and Harry rose as if to obey it. His mother opened her heavy eyes and said: “Wait a few minutes, Harry, my dear. You look miserable. You eat nothing. You have been to see Yanna. Can you not let that girl alone?”
“The girl has let me alone. She has refused even to write to me. I am miserable. And I do not feel as if anything, as if anything on earth, can atone for the loss of Yanna’s love.”
“Not even my love?”
“That is a thing by itself. It is different. I understand to-night what is meant by a broken heart.”
“The feeling does not last, Harry. In New York you will soon wonder at yourself for enduring it an hour—these bare dripping woods, this end-of-all-things feeling, is a wretched experience;—but a broken heart! Nonsense!”
“Mother, there is no use talking. I am miserable; and I do think that you are to blame.”
“Me!”
“You have wounded Yanna’s feelings in some way, I know.”