r
thought, after so many years' schooling of the world, that your pliant
tongue would play you truant. Yet now you are silent.

The moon steals silvery into the light flakes of cloud, and the air is
soft as May. The cottage is in sight. Again you risk utterance:--

"You must live very happily here."

"I have very kind friends;"--the very is emphasized.

"I am sure Nelly loves you very much."

"Oh, I believe it!"--with great earnestness.

You are at the cottage-door.--

"Good night, Maggie;"--very feelingly.

"Good night, Clarence;"--very kindly; and she draws her hand coyly, and
half tremulously, from your somewhat fevered grasp.

You stroll away dreamily, watching the moon,--running over your
fragmentary life,--half moody, half pleased, half hopeful.

You come back stealthily, and with a heart throbbing with a certain wild
sense of shame, to watch the light gleaming in the cottage. You linger
in the shadows of the trees until you catch a glimpse of her figure
gliding past the window. You bear the image home with you. You are
silent on your return. You retire early, but you do not sleep early.

----If you were only as you were: if it were not too late! If Madge
could only love you, as you know she will and must love one manly heart,
there would be a world of joy opening before you. But it is too late!

You draw out Nelly to speak of Madge: Nelly is very prudent. "Madge is a
dear girl," she says. Does Nelly even distrust you? It is a sad thing to
be too much a man of the world!

You go back again to noisy, ambitious life: you try to drown old
memories in its blaze and its vanities. Your lot seems cast beyond all
change, and you task yourself with its noisy fulfilment. But amid the
silence and the toil of your office-hours, a strange desire broods over
your spirit,--a desire for more of manliness,--that manliness which
feels itself a protector of loving and trustful innocence.

You look around upon the faces in which you have smiled unmeaning
smiles: there is nothing there to feed your dawning desires. You meet
with those ready to court you by flattering your vanity, by retailing
the praises of what you may do well, by odious familiarity, by brazen
proffer of friendship, but you see in it only the emptiness and the
vanity which you have studied to enjoy.

Sickness comes over you, and binds you for weary days and nights,--in
which life hovers doubtfully, and the lips babble secrets that you
cherish. It is