es to himself. "Why should I make a
fool of myself any further? What possesses us men always to set our
hearts precisely on what isn't to be had? There's Sally Kittridge likes
me; I can see that plainly enough, for all her mincing; and why couldn't
I have had the sense to fall in love with her? She will make a splendid,
showy woman. She has talent and tact enough to rise to any position I
may rise to, let me rise as high as I will. She will always have skill
and energy in the conduct of life; and when all the froth and foam of
youth has subsided, she will make a noble woman. Why, then, do I cling
to this fancy? I feel that this little flossy cloud, this delicate,
quiet little puff of thistledown, on which I have set my heart, is the
only thing for me, and that without her my life will always be
incomplete. I remember all our early life. It was she who sought me, and
ran after me, and where has all that love gone to? Gone to this fellow;
that's plain enough. When a girl like her is so comfortably cool and
easy, it's because her heart is off somewhere else."

This conversation took place about four o'clock in as fine an October
afternoon as you could wish to see. The sun, sloping westward, turned to
gold the thousand blue scales of the ever-heaving sea, and soft,
pine-scented winds were breathing everywhere through the forests, waving
the long, swaying films of heavy moss, and twinkling the leaves of the
silver birches that fluttered through the leafy gloom. The moon, already
in the sky, gave promise of a fine moonlight night; and the wild and
lonely stillness of the island, and the thoughts of leaving in a few
days, all conspired to foster the restless excitement in our hero's mind
into a kind of romantic unrest.

Now, in some such states, a man disappointed in one woman will turn to
another, because, in a certain way and measure, her presence stills the
craving and fills the void. It is a sort of supposititious courtship,--a
saying to one woman, who is sympathetic and receptive, the words of
longing and love that another will not receive. To be sure it is a game
unworthy of any true man,--a piece of sheer, reckless, inconsiderate
selfishness. But men do it, as they do many other unworthy things, from
the mere promptings of present impulse, and let consequences take care
of themselves. Moses met Sally that afternoon in just the frame to play
the lover in this hypothetical, supposititious way, with words and looks
and to