ostrils suggest the Catacombs! Bitter
rage and murderous fury possess me, but I am much too wise to show my
tempers at the fair; so I hug my 'consolation prize', and get away as
fast as possible with my treasure, and once safe from observation, box,
deride, trample upon it, and toss it into the garret as suitable prey
for dust, cobwebs and mildew! After a time, the keenness of the
disappointment dulls, like all other human aches that do not kill, and
by degrees I think less vindictively of the despised substitute.
Finally comes a day, when all else failing to amuse me, I creep
sheepishly into the attic and pick up the rejected, and persuade myself
it is at least better than no doll at all, and forthwith adorn it with
rags of finery; but the echoes of 'La Grande Duchesse' will always ring
in my ears, and through the halo of tears I see ever and anon the prize
beauty that was withheld. The two-edged sword in the diablerie of fate
is, that we are ordained to fret after 'bisc,' when stuffed rags have
been meted out as our share of the fair."

Leo drew a chair near the divan and seated herself; looking steadily
into the velvety black eyes that instead of betraying hid, like a
domino, the soul of their owner.

"Alma, better cross empty arms forever over empty heart, than mock your
womanhood by acceptance of a 'consolation prize'."

"We all say that the day after the fair; but wait a few years as I have
done; and like all your sisters in the ranks of the disappointed, you
will ultimately crawl back to the attic and kiss the thick lips, and
try to persuade yourself the nose is not so formidable, though
certainly a trifle less classic than Antinous's! We set out with our
eyes fixed on Vega, blazing above, and flaunt our banner--'tout ou
rien!'--but when the campaign ends, Vega laughs at us from the horizon,
quitting our world; and we console ourselves with a rushlight, and
shelter it carefully from the wind with another flag: 'Quand on n'a pas
ce qu'on aime, il faut aimer ce qu'on a!' Such is the worldly wisdom
that comes with ripening years, like the deep stain on the sunny side
of a peach. Moreover, 'folding empty arms,' is only melodrama metaphor,
and 'empty hearts' are, begging your pardon, only figments of romantic
brains. Our hearts aren't empty, more's the pity! They hold deep, deep,
the image of Vega, and the flare of the tallow eandle on the surface
serves as cross lights to dazzle the world, and help us to hide the