ys tell when a man's affections are really
engaged," said Pensee, with a sigh.

"Yes, beyond any doubt. You feel that they are comparing you at every
point, in a silent, cold-blooded way, to the bright particular star. I
envy you, Pensee; you, at least, were desperately loved by Lionel. But
I--never, never was loved--except once."

"Who was he?"

"He was a Russian, very good-looking, and a genius. But oh, I wasn't old
enough to understand him. When he died, I cried for half a day and seven
nights. And after that, not a tear. You see, I didn't understand myself
either."

"Do I know this other one ... the one, now?"

"I won't tell you his name. Perhaps, another time, when we are all very
old ... and he is dead ... or I am dying...."

"Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Pensee, "don't say that! You are making
a lot of misery for yourself."

"Not at all. I am making the most of my one saving grace. There is
nothing very nice about me--except that. And he is a man. The only real
one among all our friends--the only one for whom I have the least
respect. If any woman had his love--how sure, how happy she could be! I
could work, and starve, and lay down my life for a man like that. If he
had loved me, I think I could have been almost a good woman, a downright
good one, a Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. But you see that wasn't to be.
And so I am just this----" She looked in the glass and pointed a white
finger, loaded with rings of black pearls, at her reflection. "I am just
this--a vain, idle fool like all the rest--except you, poor darling."

"Why don't you keep up your music?--your wonderful playing? Every one
says it is so wonderful. That's a great outlet for emotion. And your
languages--why not work an hour a day each at Italian, Spanish, German,
and French? That would kill four hours of the day straight off!"

"Bah!" said Sara, "I cannot play--unless there is some one to play for.
As for languages--I cannot talk alone. And as for reading--I cannot find
all my world between the covers of a book."

"But live for others, dear Sara."

"I want to live for myself. I have one inseparable companion--that is
myself. I want to suffer my own sufferings, and enjoy my own enjoyments.
This living for others is absurd. I hate second-hand emotions; they are
stale and dull. But, Pensee, you haven't told me the name of your
friend."

"I thought I had," said Pensee, simply; "you will see it in the marriage
notice the day after to-morr