them, and take what they do read as meaning no more than half what is said.  But Roger Carbury was certainly not one of these.  As he sat on the garden wall at Carbury, with his cousin’s letter in his hand, her words had their full weight with him.  He did not try to convince himself that all this was the verbiage of an enthusiastic girl, who might soon be turned and trained to another mode of thinking by fitting admonitions.  To him now, as he read and re-read Hetta’s letter sitting on the wall, there was not at any rate further hope for himself.  Though he was altogether unchanged himself, though he was altogether incapable of change,—­ though he could not rally himself sufficiently to look forward to even a passive enjoyment of life without the...