but once or twice in his life. Idealism such as Michael Snowdon had developed in these latter years is a form of genius; given the susceptible hearer, it dazzles, inspires, raises to heroic contempt of the facts of life. Had this story been related to him of some unknown person, Sidney would have admired, but as one admires the nobly impracticable; subject to the electric influence of a man who was great enough to conceive and direct his life by such a project, who could repose so supreme a faith in those he loved, all the primitive nobleness of his character asserted itself, and he could accept with a throbbing heart the superb challenge addressed to him.
“If Jane can think me worthy to be her husband,” he replied, “your friend shall see that he has feared without cause.”
“I knew it, Sidney; I knew it!” exclaimed the old man. “How much younger I feel, now that I have shared this burden with you!”
“And shall you now tell Jane?” the other inquired.
