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‘Certainly you are imbecile. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. I done just what you asked. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. She would not forgive me. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. ‘I suppose I need not ask to which other soldier you refer. Why, he can scarcely be twenty. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time.

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