‘What did you do?’ asked she boldly.
‘I read, reflected, pondered years long—disputed, discussed, read more—inquired wherever I hoped to meet enlightenment.’
‘You never prayed,’ said she meekly.
‘Prayed! How should I—not knowing for what, or to whom?’
An exclamation—almost a cry—escaped the woman, and her lips were seen to move rapidly, as if in prayer. The sick man seemed to respect the sentiment of devotion that he could not bring himself to feel, and was silent. At last he said, in a voice of much sweetness, ‘Your patient care and kindness are not the less dear to me that I ascribe them to a source your humility would reject. I believe in human nature, my good Constance, though of a verity it has given me strong lessons not to be over-sanguine.’
‘Who has had more friends?’ began she; but he stopped her short at once by a contemptuous gesture with his hand, while he said—
‘Men are your friends in life as they are your companions on a journey—so long as your road lies in the same direction they will travel with you. To bear with your infirmities, to take count of your trials, and make allowance for your hardships; to find out what of good there is in you, and teach you to fertilise it for yourself; to discern the soil of your nature, expel its weeds, and still to be hopeful—this is friendship. But it never comes from a brother man; it is a woman alone can render it. Who is it that knocks there?’ asked he quickly.
She went to the door and speedily returned with the answer—
‘It is the same youth who was here yesterday, and refused to give his name. He is still most urgent in his demand to see you.’
‘Does he know what he asks—that I am on the eve of a long journey, and must needs have my thoughts engaged about the road before me?’