fire-place, where he stood in an attitude of undisguised dejection, leaning against the chimney-piece with his forehead sunk upon his arm.
"Where do you want to go, Arthur?" said I.
"To London," replied he, gravely.
"What for?" I asked.
"Because I cannot be happy here."
"Why not?"
"Because my wife doesn't love me."
"She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved it."
"What must I do to deserve it?"
This seemed humble and earnest enough; and I was so much affected, between sorrow and joy, that I was obliged to pause a few seconds before I could steady my voice to reply.
"If she gives you her heart," said I, "you must take it thankfully, and use it well, and not pull it in pieces, and laugh in her face, because she cannot snatch it away."
