fifth-act. The young man looks that way when he
marches around in the limelight moonlight contemplating the approach of
the catastrophe. But what have you to do with catastrophes? Off the
stage men only have that desperate look when they are in love. I trust
you are safe, Mr. Haviland."

She looked so arch that I could not help a laugh, though the effect
jarred on my mood.

"You will find me dull, I am afraid," I answered.

"That's of no consequence. Self-education is my mission. Believe me, I
thirst for this knack of lugubriousness."

I would have resented the trifling at that moment from almost any person
but Grace. She divined my discomfort, veered her questioning to College
affairs, and detailed to me some amusing information on dances and
engagements, to which I listened with what attention I could. But my
eyes persisted in resting oftener and oftener on Alexandra, and some
bread baked by her and Annie,--a triumph of amateur housekeeping--being
passed by the latter in pieces among the cake, I imagined that it tasted
like the sacrament, and utterly lost track of what the merry girl was
saying. She left me to flood out her spirits on a friend who was rising
to go; whereupon I recollected myself.

Behold Quinet, poor fellow, Quinet is too earnest for Society. Some
supercilious young creature has cut him to the quick for commencing a
historical remark. Smarting under his rebuke he withdraws a step or two.
A kind voice accosts him; it is Alexandra. "Come here and speak to me,
Mr. Quinet. You always talk what is worth while." "To talk of what is
worth while makes enemies," he answered bitterly: "I am thinking of
giving it up." "You should not do that," she said. "If I were a man I
would think of nothing but the highest things."

The night's sleep was broken by visions of her, as I had just seen her,
so near, so fair. I tried to force my imagination into snatches of
remembrance of her face as colored and clear-outlined as the
reality--bearing the noble expression it had worn when she said "Would
not that be wrong?"

How I sank into self-contempt by comparison!

I wonder if Englishmen feel the passion of love as we French do.

"I love her, I love her," was my burning ejaculation. "Yet how dare I
love her! I am unworthy to stand in her presence! There is only left for
me to purify and burn and subdue my heart until it is completely worthy
of her holy sight. Worthy of her! And what is worthy of her?"

Again her p