P OF LITTLE TRAITORS, HAPPY MEMORIES,

carrying her "over the hills and far away" into that dim past whence she
emerged, all happiness and health. The conscience now has loosened its
harsh rule. The memories play in her brain like children on a lawn, and
their merry music often drowns the dirges still sadly chanted in her
deeper soul. And thus the winter passes--not in a whirlwind of grief as
did the summer, whose days she never saw, or will not know she saw,
until they come again hot and heavy with the association of her
bitterness. But it is safe to say her dread of those days will exceed
the actual grief they cause her, and she can soon look back upon her
sorrow, and say that she has mourned

RATHER NOT ENOUGH THAN TOO MUCH.

If there be joined to this a new association, one that nature and God
have both approved, then there is lifted up the sneer of the world, and
again the weakness of woman, the frivolity of humanity, is deplored by
those who demand that grief shall co-survive with remembrance. We do not
suffer so much as we think we ought to, and yet, foolish and illogical,
we call upon our fate in a grand monotony of complaint at the heaviness
of our ills. The young man falls in love. His love is not returned. He
has believed himself capable of undying and unalterable affection for a
maiden. Unselfish, therefore, it must endure, whether she love him or
not, for

HAS HE NOT PROCLAIMED IT TO HIS OWN SOUL?

She loves him not! The test is come. He must despise himself as a
shallow-hearted hind, or dwell in extacies of adoration over one who
will resign herself into the keeping of another, a thing most detestable
to this young man. Either horn of the dilemma shows him life, true life.
Not a poem or a dream, but as a range of mountains would form if they
were piled down from some other world; first a row of little peaks, then
monster heights arising where valleys hid, and valleys forming on the
points of peaks.

THIS YOUTHFUL PEAK OF GRIEF,

the young man finds in after years, is but the more substantial bottom
of two slopes which rise sublimely toward the zenith of his life. He
banishes his false conceptions of the grandeur of the human mind. He
banishes an attachment which had not a substantial girder under it, and
within a few years his heart is all the broader, gentler and more
charitable for his young sorrow. Do not think me underrating the
poignancy of ill-requited love. It is no mean sorrow. But no