Mr. Burroughs no longer pressed for an answer to the question he had
asked, but grasped at a new argument.
"Pity and kindness!" sadly repeated he. "Dora, if you only knew how
much more I stand in need of your pity than you of mine, if you only
knew what kindness your life has already done mine, you would not
treat me in this manner."
"You need my pity!" exclaimed Dora, forgetting herself, and turning
to look at him in na‹ve astonishment; "and for what?"
"For a purposeless and weary life; for an empty heart and a corroded
faith," said her lover bitterly; "for an indifference to men,
amounting almost to aversion; for a trifling estimate of women,
amounting almost to contempt; for wasted abilities and neglected
opportunities,--for all these, Dora, I need your pity, and have a
right to claim it: for it is only since I loved you that I have
recognized my own great needs and deficiencies. Complete the work
you have unconsciously begun, dearest. Reverse the fairy fable, and
let the beautiful princess come to waken with her kiss the slothful
prince, who else might sleep forever."
"How can you know so soon that I am the princess?" asked Dora shyly.
"So soon! I felt the truth stirring blindly in my heart that first
night, now a year ago, when I saw you in the old home, and read your
candid eyes, and heard your clear voice, and marked your steady and
serene influence upon all about you.
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