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rmerly municated a certain austere charm to his language and manner。 To me； he was in reality bee no longer flesh； but marble； his eye was a cold； bright； blue gem； his tongue a speaking instrument— nothing more。
All this was torture to me—refined； lingering torture。 It kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief； which harassed and crushed me altogether。 I felt how—if I were his wife； this good man； pure as the deep sunless source； could soon kill me； without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood； or receiving on his own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime。 Especially I felt this when I made any attempt to propitiate him。 No ruth met my ruth。 He experienced no suffering from estrangement—no yearning after reconciliation； and though； more than once； my fast falling tears blistered the page over which we both bent； they produced no more effect on him than if his heart had been really a matter of stone or metal。 To his sisters； meantime； he was somewhat kinder than usual： as if afraid that mere coldness would not sufficiently convince me how pletely I was banished and banned； he added the force of contrast； and this I am sure he did not by force； but on principle。
The night before he left home； happening to see him walking in the garden about sunset； and remembering； as I looked at him； that this man； alienated as he now was； had once saved my life； and that we were near relations； I was moved to make a last attempt to
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