CHAPTER XI.
SOPHIE'S WORK.
A nature half transformed, with qualities That oft betrayed each other, elements Not blent, but struggling, breeding strange effects Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes.
_George Eliot_.
High minds of native pride and force Most deeply feel thy pangs, remorse! Fear for their scourge, mean villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave.
_Scott_.
This was what Sophie had done: she had invoked forces that she could not control, and she felt, as people are apt to feel when they watch their monster growing into strength, a little frightened and a little sorry.
No doubt it had seemed to her a very small thing, to favor the folly of a girl of seventeen, fascinated by the voice and manner of a nameless stranger; it was a folly most manifest, but she had nothing to do with it, and was not responsible; a very small thing to allow, and to encourage what, doubtless, she flattered herself, her discouragement could not have subdued.

It was very natural that she should not wish Richard to many any one; she was not more selfish than most sisters are.
Most sisters do not like to give their brothers up.

She would have to give up her home (one of her homes, that is,) as well.

She did not think Richard's choice a wise one: she was not subject to the fascination of outline and coloring that had subjugated him, and she felt sincerely that she was the best judge.

If Richard must marry (though in thinking of her own married life, she could not help wondering why he must), let him marry a woman who had fortune, or position, or talent.