fe say to the
loving when their love is no longer of any value, when all that has
been placed upon the altar of affection has been found to be a vain
sacrifice? Philosophy? Give that to dolls to play with. Religion? Seek
first the metaphysical-minded. Aileen was no longer the lithe,
forceful, dynamic girl of 1865, when Cowperwood first met her. She was
still beautiful, it is true, a fair, full-blown, matronly creature not
more than thirty-five, looking perhaps thirty, feeling, alas, that she
was a girl and still as attractive as ever. It is a grim thing to a
woman, however fortunately placed, to realize that age is creeping on,
and that love, that singing will-o'-the-wisp, is fading into the
ultimate dark. Aileen, within the hour of her greatest triumph, had
seen love die. It was useless to tell herself, as she did sometimes,
that it might come back, revive. Her ultimately realistic temperament
told her this could never be. Though she had routed Rita Sohlberg, she
was fully aware that Cowperwood's original constancy was gone. She was
no longer happy. Love was dead. That sweet illusion, with its pearly
pink for heart and borders, that laughing cherub that lures with
Cupid's mouth and misty eye, that young tendril of the vine of life
that whispers of eternal spring-time, that calls and calls where
aching, wearied feet by legion follow, was no longer in existence.

In vain the tears, the storms, the self-tortures; in vain the looks in
the mirror, the studied examination of plump, sweet features still
fresh and inviting. One day, at the sight of tired circles under her
eyes, she ripped from her neck a lovely ruche that she was adjusting
and, throwing herself on her bed, cried as though her heart would
break. Why primp? Why ornament? Her Frank did not love her. What to
her now was a handsome residence in Michigan Avenue, the refinements of
a French boudoir, or clothing that ran the gamut of the dressmaker's
art, hats that were like orchids blooming in serried rows? In vain, in
vain! Like the raven that perched above the lintel of the door, sad
memory was here, grave in her widow weeds, crying "never more." Aileen
knew that the sweet illusion which had bound Cowperwood to her for a
time had gone and would never come again. He was here. His step was
in the room mornings and evenings; at night for long prosaic,
uninterrupted periods she could hear him breathing by her side, his
hand on her body. There were other