"That will do beautifully. And now, Miss Lemark, if I am to be your doctor, you must go to sleep."
"Because I shall not talk? But I will not go to sleep, and I will talk. What should you do if you were in my place, feeling as I do?"
"I do not know all."
"You may if you like."
"Then I may guess; at least, I may imagine all that I might feel if I were in your place,—a delicate young lady who has been fainting for the love of music."
"You are sneering; I do not mind that. I have seen such an expression upon a face I admire more than yours. Suppose you felt you had seen—"
"What I could never forget, nor cease to love," I answered, fast and eagerly; I could not let her say it, or anything just there,—"I should earnestly learn his nature, should fill myself to the brim with his beauty, just as with his music. I should feel that in keeping my heart pure, above all from envy, and my life most like his life, I should be approaching nearer than any earthly tie could lead me, should become worthy of his celestial communion, of his immortal, his heavenly tendencies. Nor should I regret to suffer,—to suffer for his sake."
I used these last words—themselves so well remembered—without remembering who said them for me first, till I had fairly spoken; then I, too, longed to weep: Maria's voice was trembling in my brain, a ghostly music. As Laura answered, the ghostly music passed, even as a wind shaken and scattered upon the sea. It was earth again, as vague, scarcely less lonely!
"A worldly man would mock. You do not a much wiser thing, but you do it for the best. I will try to hide it forever, for there is, indeed, no hope."
Half imploring, this was hardly a question; yet I answered,—