to which his rough, working life had rendered him unfamiliar. Sometimes in his youthful melancholy he had thought his own lot hard,—an orphan, too rich, among worldly relatives who could neither inspire nor direct a right ambition. But this girl, living alone here—
"The summer's flower is to the summer as sweet,"—
"Odious!" he almost cried aloud. He could not wait till morning to see her and talk to her. At least he could not sleep: for an hour or more he must have sat on the edge of his bed, thinking over this philosopher of charnel fragments, this vague egotist who could quote so inhumanly, and survey with such mournful gusto the transiency of things. At times a faint stir in the house showed that others were still awake.
His windows were open. So, apparently, were those on the landing of the staircase; for suddenly he heard a voice near at hand speaking into the night,—a muddled voice that ran the words together thickly:—
"Fair-ss-a-scar—when-on'y-one—is-s—shining-in-the-sty"—
