WhenIwasnotinBertha’spresence—andIwaswithherveryoften,forshecontinuedtotreatmewithaplayfulpatronagethatwakenednojealousyinmybrother—Ispentmytimechieflyinwandering,instrolling,ortakinglongrideswhilethedaylightlasted,andthenshuttingmyselfupwithmyunreadbooksforbookshadlostthepowerofchainingmyattention.Myself-consciousnesswasheightenedtothatpitchofintensityinwhichourownemotionstaketheformofadramawhichurgesitselfimperativelyonourcontemplation,andwebegintoweep,lessunderthesenseofoursufferingthanatthethoughtofit.Ifeltasortofpityinganguishoverthepathosofmyownlot:thelotofabeingfinelyorganizedforpain,butwithhardlyanyfibresthatrespondedtopleasure—towhomtheideaoffutureevilrobbedthepresentofitsjoy,andforwhomtheideaoffuturegooddidnotstilltheuneasinessofapresentyearningorapresentdread.Iwentdumblythroughthatstageofthepoet’ssuffering,inwhichhefeelsthedeliciouspangofutterance,andmakesanimageofhissorrows. Iwasleftentirelywithoutremonstranceconcerningthisdreamywaywardlife:Iknewmyfather’sthoughtaboutme:“Thatladwillneverbegoodforanythinginlife:hemaywastehisyearsinaninsignificantwayontheincomethatfallstohim:Ishallnottroublemyselfaboutacareerforhim.” OnemildmorninginthebeginningofNovember,ithappenedthatIwasstandingoutsidetheporticopattinglazyoldC?sar,aNewfoundlandalmostblindwithage,theonlydogthatevertookanynoticeofme—fortheverydogsshunnedme,andfawnedonthehappierpeopleaboutme—whenthegroombroughtupmybrother’shorsewhichwastocarryhimtothehunt,andmybrotherhimselfappearedatthedoor,florid,broad-chested,andself-complacent,feelingwhatagood-naturedfellowhewasnottobehaveinsolentlytousallonthestrengthofhisgreatadvantages. “Latimer,oldboy,”hesaidtomeinatoneofcompassionatecordiality,“whatapityitisyoudon’thavearunwiththehoundsnowandthen!Thefinestthingintheworldforlowspirits!” “Lowspirits!”Ithoughtbitterly,asherodeaway“thatisthesortofphrasewithwhichcoarse,narrownatureslikeyoursthinktodescribeexperienceofwhichyoucanknownomorethanyourhorseknows.Itistosuchasyouthatthegoodofthisworldfalls:readydulness,healthyselfishness,good-temperedconceit—thesearethekeystohappiness.” Thequickthoughtcame,thatmyselfishnesswasevenstrongerthanhis—itwasonlyasufferingselfishnessinsteadofanenjoyingone.Butthen,again,myexasperatinginsightintoAlfred’sself-complacentsoul,hisfreedomfromallthedoubtsandfears,theunsatisfiedyearnings,theexquisitetorturesofsensitiveness,thathadmadethewebofmylife,seemedtoabsolvemefromallbondstowardshim.Thismanneedednopity,nolovethosefineinfluenceswouldhavebeenaslittlefeltbyhimasthedelicatewhitemistisfeltbytherockitcaresses.Therewasnoevilinstoreforhim:ifhewasnottomarryBertha,itwouldbebecausehehadfoundalotpleasantertohimself. Mr.Filmore’shouselaynotmorethanhalfamilebeyondourowngates,andwheneverIknewmybrotherwasgoneinanotherdirection,IwentthereforthechanceoffindingBerthaathome.LateroninthedayIwalkedthither.Byarareaccidentshewasalone,andwewalkedoutinthegroundstogether,forsheseldomwentonfootbeyondthetrimly-sweptgravel-walks.IrememberwhatabeautifulsylphshelookedtomeasthelowNovembersunshoneonherblondhair,andshetrippedalongteasingmewithherusuallightbanter,towhichIlistenedhalffondly,halfmoodilyitwasallthesignBertha’smysteriousinnerselfevermadetome.To-dayperhaps,themoodinesspredominated,forIhadnotyetshakenofftheaccessofjealoushatewhichmybrotherhadraisedinmebyhispartingpatronage.SuddenlyIinterruptedandstartledherbysaying,almostfiercely,“Bertha,howcanyouloveAlfred?” Shelookedatmewithsurpriseforamoment,butsoonherlightsmilecameagain,andsheansweredsarcastically,“WhydoyousupposeIlovehim?” “Howcanyouaskthat,Bertha?” “What!yourwisdomthinksImustlovethemanI’mgoingtomarry?Themostunpleasantthingintheworld.IshouldquarrelwithhimIshouldbejealousofhimourménagewouldbeconductedinaveryill-bredmanner.Alittlequietcontemptcontributesgreatlytotheeleganceoflife.”