So Corydon recited in a low voice a couple of stanzas which had come to her in the lonely midnight hours. Thyrsis listened with interest—he had never heard them before:
“What matters the tired heart,
What matters the weary brain?
What matters the cruel smart
Of the burden borne again?
I was sick with the Nay of life—
With my lonely soul’s refrain;
But the essence of love is strife,
And the meaning of life is pain.”
There was a pause. “Do you—do you think that is worth while at all?” asked Corydon.
“It is evidently sincere,” replied Mrs. Channing. “I think you ought to study and practice.”
“I can’t make much effort at it—”
But the other went on: “What concerns me is the attitude to life it shows. It is terrible that a young girl should feel that way. You must not let yourself get into such a state!”
“But how can I help it?”
“You must have something that occupies your mind! That is what you need, truly it is! You’ve got to stop thinking about yourself—you’ve got to get outside yourself, somehow!”
Thyrsis caught his breath. He could tell from the tone of the speaker’s voice that she was laboring with Corydon, putting forth all her energies to impress her. He was tempted to step forward and cry out, “No, no! That’s not the way! That won’t work!”
But instead, he stood rooted to the spot, while Mrs. Channing went on—“This unhappiness comes from the fact that you are so self-centred. You must get some constructive work, my dear, if it’s only training your baby. You must realize that you are not the only person who has troubles in the world. Why, I know a poor washerwoman, who was left a widow with four children to care for—”