She tried to reassure me, to show me that it
was mainly physical, the overstrain of long and actively enjoyed
work, and that all I needed was rest. She did not say one word of
reproach, or anything to imply that I was unmanly and cowardly--
indeed, she contrived, I know not how, to lead me to think that my
state was in ordinary life hardly apparent. Once she asked
pathetically if there was no way in which she could help. I had not
the heart to say what was in my mind, that it would be better and
easier for me if she ignored my unhappiness altogether; and that
sympathy and compassion only plunged me deeper into gloom, as
showing me that it was evident that there was something amiss--but
I said "No, there is nothing; and no one can help me, unless God
kindles the light He has quenched. Be your own dear self as much as
possible; think and speak as little of me as you can,"--and then I
added: "Dearest, my love for you is here, as strong and pure as
ever--don't doubt that--only I cannot find it or come near it--it
is hidden from me somewhere--I am like a man wandering in dark
fields, who sees the firelit window of his home; he cannot feel the
warmth, but he knows that it is there waiting for him.
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