rmerly　municated　a　certain　austere　charm　to　his　language　and　manner。　To　me；　he　was　in　reality　bee　no　longer　flesh；　but　marble；　his　eye　was　a　cold；　bright；　blue　gem；　his　tongue　a　speaking　instrument—　nothing　more。

All　this　was　torture　to　me—refined；　lingering　torture。　It　kept　up　a　slow　fire　of　indignation　and　a　trembling　trouble　of　grief；　which　harassed　and　crushed　me　altogether。　I　felt　how—if　I　were　his　wife；　this　good　man；　pure　as　the　deep　sunless　source；　could　soon　kill　me；　without　drawing　from　my　veins　a　single　drop　of　blood；　or　receiving　on　his　own　crystal　conscience　the　faintest　stain　of　crime。　Especially　I　felt　this　when　I　made　any　attempt　to　propitiate　him。　No　ruth　met　my　ruth。　He　experienced　no　suffering　from　estrangement—no　yearning　after　reconciliation；　and　though；　more　than　once；　my　fast　falling　tears　blistered　the　page　over　which　we　both　bent；　they　produced　no　more　effect　on　him　than　if　his　heart　had　been　really　a　matter　of　stone　or　metal。　To　his　sisters；　meantime；　he　was　somewhat　kinder　than　usual：　as　if　afraid　that　mere　coldness　would　not　sufficiently　convince　me　how　pletely　I　was　banished　and　banned；　he　added　the　force　of　contrast；　and　this　I　am　sure　he　did　not　by　force；　but　on　principle。

The　night　before　he　left　home；　happening　to　see　him　walking　in　the　garden　about　sunset；　and　remembering；　as　I　looked　at　him；　that　this　man；　alienated　as　he　now　was；　had　once　saved　my　life；　and　that　we　were　near　relations；　I　was　moved　to　make　a　last　attempt　to