, as she often did, the little rogue, just to see you look wretched;
how sunny when she smiled! How jealous you were of every one about
her! How you hated every man she shook hands with, every woman she
kissed--the maid that did her hair, the boy that cleaned her shoes, the
dog she nursed--though you had to be respectful to the last-named! How
you looked forward to seeing her, how stupid you were when you did see
her, staring at her without saying a word! How impossible it was for
you to go out at any time of the day or night without finding yourself
eventually opposite her windows! You hadn't pluck enough to go in, but
you hung about the corner and gazed at the outside. Oh, if the house had
only caught fire--it was insured, so it wouldn't have mattered--and you
could have rushed in and saved her at the risk of your life, and have
been terribly burned and injured! Anything to serve her. Even in little
things that was so sweet. How you would watch her, spaniel-like, to
anticipate her slightest wish! How proud you were to do her bidding! How
delightful it was to be ordered about by her! To devote your whole life
to her and to never think of yourself seemed such a simple thing. You
would go without a holiday to lay a humble offering at her shrine, and
felt more than repaid if she only deigned to accept it. How precious to
you was everything that she had hallowed by her touch--her little glove,
the ribbon she had worn, the rose that had nestled in her hair and whose
withered leaves still mark the poems you never care to look at now.

And oh, how beautiful she was, how wondrous beautiful! It was as some
angel entering the room, and all else became plain and earthly. She was
too sacred to be touched. It seemed almost presumption to gaze at her.
You would as soon have thought of kissing her as of singing comic songs
in a cathedral. It was desecration enough to kneel and timidly raise the
gracious little hand to your lips.

Ah, those foolish days, those foolish days when we were unselfish and
pure-minded; those foolish days when our simple hearts were full
of truth, and faith, and reverence! Ah, those foolish days of noble
longings and of noble strivings! And oh, these wise, clever days when we
know that money is the only prize worth striving for, when we believe in
nothing else but meanness and lies, when we care for no living creature
but ourselves!

ON BEING IN THE BLUES.

I can enjoy feeling melancholy, and there i