"Not yet--no. [Evelyn's spirits rose.] Have you read the book I sent
you?" (It was one of De Stael's.)

"Yes; but it disappoints me."

"And why? It is eloquent."

"But is it true? Is there so much melancholy in life? Are the
affections so full of bitterness? For me, I am so happy when with those
I love! When I am with my mother, the air seems more fragrant, the skies
more blue: it is surely not affection, but the absence of it, that makes
us melancholy."

"Perhaps so; but if we had never known affection, we might not miss it:
and the brilliant Frenchwoman speaks from memory, while you speak from
hope,--memory, which is the ghost of joy: yet surely, even in the
indulgence of affection, there is at times a certain melancholy, a
certain fear. Have you never felt it, even with--with your mother?"

"Ah, yes! when she suffered, or when I have thought she loved me less
than I desired."

"That must have been an idle and vain thought. Your mother! does she
resemble you?"

"I wish I could think so. Oh, if you knew her! I have longed so often
that you were acquainted with each other! It was she who taught me to
sing your songs."

"My dear Mrs. Hare, we may as well throw up our cards," said the keen