The old man expressed so much sympathy, and spoke so encouragingly, that Mr. Royden continued,
"You remember me, I suppose, an ambitious, warm, impulsive youth?"
"Well do I! And the interest I felt in you has never cooled."
"Hope was bright before me. I believed I should make some stir in the world. All my plans for the future were tinged with the colors of romance. But the flowers I saw in the distance proved to be only briers."
"You found life a stern and unromantic fact," said Father Brighthopes, smiling. "The same disenchantment awaits every imaginative youth. It is sad—it is often very bitter; but it is a useful lesson."
"The blue hills I climbed grew unusually rugged and rocky to my undisciplined feet," resumed Mr. Royden, shaking his head. "I came upon the ledges very suddenly. The haze and sunshine faded and dissolved, even as I reached the most enchanting point of the ascent."
"It is plain you allude to your marriage."
Mr. Royden was silent. His features writhed with bitter emotions, and his voice was deep and tremulous, when at length he spoke.
"My wife is the best of women at heart," he said. "I feel that I could not live without her. But she never understood me, and never could. With the aspirations dearest to my soul she has had no sympathy."
"It is her misfortune, and not her fault, I am sure," replied Father Brighthopes.