r that--the hunt! At once the masculine
self-respect returns, and the wonder, though no less sweet in itself,
becomes but another form of tribute.

With Narcissus this evolution had taken place early: it was very long
ago--he felt old even then to think of it--since Hesperus had sung like
a nightingale above his first kiss, and his memory counted many trophies
of lordship. But, surely, this last was of all the starriest; perhaps,
indeed, so wonderful was it, it might prove the very love which would
bring back again the dream that had seemed lost for ever with the
passing of that mythical first maid so long ago, a love in which worship
should be all once more, and godship none at all. But is not such a
question all too certainly its own answer? Nay, Narcissus, if indeed you
find that wonder-maid again, you will not question so; you will forget
to watch that graceful shadow in the moonlight; you will but ask to sit
by her silent, as of old, to follow her to the end of the world. Ah me!

'How many queens have ruled and passed
Since first we met;
How thick and fast
The letters used to come at first,
How thin at last;
Then ceased, and winter for a space!
Until another hand
Brought spring into the land,
And went the seasons' pace.'

That Miller's Daughter, although 'so dear, so dear,' why, of course, she
was not that maid: but again the silver halo has grown about her; again
Narcissus asks himself, 'Did she live, or did I dream?'; again she comes
to him at whiles, wafted on that strange incense, and clothed about in
that mystical lustre of pearl.

Doubtless, she lives in that fabled country still: but Narcissus has
grown sadly wise since then, and he goes on pilgrimage no more.

CHAPTER V

AN IDYLL OF ALICE SUNSHINE, WHICH REALLY BELONGS TO THE LAST CHAPTER

If the Reader has heard enough of the amourettes of the young gentleman
upon whose memoirs I am engaged, let him skip this chapter and pass to
the graver chapters beyond. My one aim is the Reader's pleasure, and I
carry my solicitude so far that if he finds his happiness to lie outside
these pages altogether, has no choice among these various chapters, but
prefers none to any, I am quite content. Such a spirit of
self-abnegation, the Reader must admit, is true love.

Perhaps it was an early unconscious birth-impulse of the true love some
day to be born in his heart, that caused Narcissus to make a confession
to his Miller's