"There ought to be nothing ugly in the world.—Nothing that is ugly ought to be allowed to live."
"But, my child, if all we ugly people were to be obliged to take ourselves out of the world, it would be left almost depopulated. Poor, unhappy, little simpleton! But this notion of yours is not a new one. Other persons had it before you, centuries ago; persons with an imagination like yours—living, as you have lived, in the midst of Nature, and lacking the light which your ignorance and loneliness have deprived you of, and which they had not, because it had not then dawned on the world.—But you must be cured of this delusion; you must reflect that you have your portion of gifts more precious than beauty—gifts of the mind, which neither fade with time, nor change with the caprices of taste. Seek for them in your soul and you will find them. They will not perish as beauty would which, seek it as you may in your looking-glass, you will never find. But seek out these really good and precious gifts; cultivate them, and when you see them thriving and blooming, all this misery you are suffering will vanish—take my word for it. And meanwhile you will soon rise superior to the wretched situation in which you now are, and acquire a beauty which may not perhaps charm the eye, but which will be a source of pride and happiness to yourself."
This wise advice was either not heard or not heeded by Nela; she sat down again by Golfin and gazed fixedly in his face. Her small eyes, more eloquent just then than the finest could have been, seemed to say:
"And what is the upshot of all these fine speeches, learned Sir?"
"Now you see," Golfin went on, warming to his subject, and giving it, in spite of himself, the character of a psychological lecture—"there is one important question, and that is...."
But Nela had guessed it, and covered her face with her hands.
"There is nothing strange in it—on the contrary, it is the most natural thing that could happen to you. You have a sensitive temperament and an excitable imagination. You and your master had led a life together of free and poetic communion with nature, and of most perfect and innocent intimacy. He is as wise and clever as a man can be, and as handsome as a statue. His beauty, when blind even, seemed formed to delight the eyes of those who could see. His kindness of heart too, and generous spirit are enough to charm and win the love of any woman. It is not strange that they should have captivated you—a child so womanly—or a woman looking so like a child.—Do you love him so much? More than anything else in the world?"
"Yes, yes—Señor," the girl sobbed out.
"And you cannot bear the idea of his ceasing to love you?"