tly locked, which he has no key to open;
rooms which have contained costly vessels, empty and deep with dust.

There is no other step than his, for he walks there alone; sometimes to
the music of dead days and sometimes to the laughter of a little child.
The petals of crushed roses rustle at his feet--his roses--in the inmost
places of her heart. And beyond, of spotless marble, with the infinite
calm of mountains and perpetual snow, is something which he seldom
comprehends--her love of her own whiteness.

It is a wondrous thing. For it is so small he could hold it in the
hollow of his hand, yet it is great enough to shelter him forever. All
the world may not break it if his love is steadfast and unchanging, and
loving him, it becomes deep enough to love and pity all the world.

It is a tender thing. So often is it wounded that it cannot see another
suffer, and its own pain is easier far to bear. It makes a shield of its
very tenderness, gladly receiving the stabs that were meant for him,
forgiving always, and forgetting when it may.

[Sidenote: The Solace]

Yet, after all, it is a simple thing. For in times of deepest doubt and
trouble, it requires for its solace only the tender look, the whispered
word which brings new courage, and the old-time grace of the lover's
way.

The Philosophy of Love

[Illustration]

The Philosophy of Love

[Sidenote: The Prevailing Theme]

A modern novelist has greatly lamented because the prevailing theme of
fiction is love. Every story is a love story, every romance finds its
inspiration in the heart, and even the musty tomes of history are beset
by the little blind god.

One or two men have dared to write books from which women have been
excluded as rigorously as from the Chinese stage, but the world of
readers has not loudly clamoured for more of the same sort. A story of
adventure loses none of its interest if there is some fair damsel to be
rescued from various thrilling situations.

The realists contend that a single isolated fact should not be dwelt
upon to the exclusion of all other interests, that love plays but a
small part in the life of the average man or woman, and that it is
unreasonable to expand it to the uttermost limits of art.

Strangely enough, the realists are all men. If a woman ventures to write
a book which may fitly be classed under the head of realism, the critics
charitably unite upon insanity as the cause of it and lament the lost
w