"'Because I cannot. It was no particular thought—no description in itself that disturbed me; but, if I may so express it, the entire atmosphere of the book. It made me unhappy.'
"I was driven to desperate frankness by his persistency, and spoke out almost with tears in my eyes.
"'Then some thought in the volume, or the narrative itself, struck upon your heart, or disturbed your conscience?' he answered, in a low voice.
"I started. Was this true?
"'Perhaps some points of the story were not unlike your own experience?' he continued.
"I felt the tears starting to my eyes. Yes, he was right. It was a sense of the barrenness of my own future that had made me so restless. If the volume had produced this effect, how much greater was the disturbance when its author stood by my side, with looks and voice more eloquent than his writings. He waited in silence for my answer; it only came in low sobs.
"'Forgive me; I have wounded you unthinkingly.'
"His voice was like that of a penitent man in prayer; his face grew earnest and sad.
"'Look on me, and say that I am forgiven.'
"I did look at him, and met the tender penitence in his eyes with a thrill of pain. How had the man won the power of arousing such feelings in a few brief hours? Was it because I had been familiar with his thoughts so long? I could not answer; but the very presence of this stranger disturbed me. Sensations never dreamed of in my previous existence rose and swelled in my bosom. The impulse to flee from his presence seized upon me. I did turn to go, but he walked quietly forward at the same time.