"Well, sir?"
"It is not well, at all. It is very ill. It is most miserable!"
"Well! what do I care for the article in 'T——'s Magazine'? "These words were jerked out, as it were, with something like a sneer.
"You care more than you will ever be brought to confess. Have you read this precious 'Inner Life'?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Have you any idea who the author is?"
"Yes, sir; I know the author; but if it had been intended or desired that the public should know, also, the article would never have appeared over a fictitious signature."
This "Inner Life," which she had written for the last number of the magazine, was an allegory, in which she boldly attempted to disprove the truth of the fact Tennyson has so inimitably embodied in "The Palace of Art," namely, that love of beauty and intellectual culture cannot satisfy the God-given aspirations of the soul. Her guardian fully comprehended the dawning, and as yet unacknowledged dread which prompted this article, and hastily laying his hand on her shoulder, he said:
"Ah, proud girl! you are struggling desperately with your heart. You, too, have reared a 'palace' on dreary, almost inaccessible crags; and, because already you begin to weary of your isolation, you would fain hurl invectives at Tennyson, who explores your mansion, 'so royal, rich, and wide,' and discovers the grim specters that dwell with you! You were very miserable when you wrote that sketch; you are not equal to what you have undertaken. Child, this year of trial and loneliness has left its impress on your face. Are you not yet willing to give up the struggle?"
The moon had risen, and, as its light shone on her countenance, he saw a fierce blaze in her eyes he had never noticed there before. She shook off his light touch, and answered: