hand. 'You will follow the path I have marked; you will be faithful to
the young girl whom an influence as devoted as that which has governed
your own young life has moulded into everything amiable; you will marry
Isabel Vernor.' This was pretty 'steep,' as we used to say at school. I
was frightened; I drew away my hand and asked to be trusted without any
such terrible vow. My reluctance startled my father into a suspicion
that the vulgar theory of independence had already been whispering to me.
He sat up in his bed and looked at me with eyes which seemed to foresee a
lifetime of odious ingratitude. I felt the reproach; I feel it now. I
promised! And even now I don't regret my promise nor complain of my
father's tenacity. I feel, somehow, as if the seeds of ultimate repose
had been sown in those unsuspecting years--as if after many days I might
gather the mellow fruit. But after many days! I will keep my promise, I
will obey; but I want to _live_ first!"

"My dear fellow, you are living now. All this passionate consciousness
of your situation is a very ardent life. I wish I could say as much for
my own."

"I want to forget my situation. I want to spend three months without
thinking of the past or the future, grasping whatever the present offers
me. Yesterday I thought I was in a fair way to sail with the tide. But
this morning comes this memento!" And he held up his letter again.

"What is it?"

"A letter from Smyrna."

"I see you have not yet broken the seal."