Does any one
ever fully sympathise with another, until he has felt as he does? No, we
should not judge our weak fellow mortals so harshly, if we knew all
their temptations and trials.
Then, again, Miss Gwynne returned to him, with her pride and coldness.
How could he love such a woman? he, whose beau ideal of feminine
perfection was a creature of gentleness, love, and pity? but he would
think of her no more. She, at least, should discover that he was as
proud as herself.
Yes, he was proud, he knew it, and now, he would glory in his pride
instead of trample it down, as he had been of late trying to do, as an
arch tempter; he should be justified in showing pride for her pride.
Again a gentler and better mood came. Was he not vain, ambitious,
ridiculous in her eyes, for venturing to speak to her as he had done?
Doubtless he had been wrong, but she needed not to spurn him as she had
done; she might have told him so as a friend. Friend! she thought him
beneath her friendship.
But we will not pursue these musings further; every kind and degree of
feeling alternated for nearly two hours, when, as if by some sudden
impulse or resolution, Rowland sat down and determined to write his
sermon. It should be upon pride, and should touch her as well as
himself.
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