ply.

There is a curious delusion, fostered by phrenologists and other amiable
students of "temperament," to the effect that a brunette must infallibly
fall in love with a blonde and vice versa. What dire misfortune may
result if this rule is not followed can be only surmised, for the
phrenologists do not know. Still, the majority of men are dark and it is
said they do not marry as readily as of yore--is this the secret of the
widespread havoc made by peroxide of hydrogen?

The lurid fiction fever soon runs its course with Mademoiselle, if she
is let alone, and she turns her attention once more to her schoolmates.
She has at least a dozen serious attacks before she is twenty, and at
that ripe age, is often a little _blase_.

[Sidenote: The Pastime and the Dream]

But the day soon comes when the pretty play is over and the soft eyes
widen with fear. She passes the dividing line between childhood and
womanhood when she first realises that her pastime and her dream have
forged chains around her inmost soul. This, then, is what life holds for
her; it is ecstasy or torture, and for this very thing she was made.

Some man exists whom she will follow to the end of the world, right
royally if she may, but on her knees if she must. The burning sands of
the desert will be as soft grass if he walks beside her, his voice will
make her forget her thirst, and his touch upon her arm will change her
weariness into peace.

When he beckons she must answer. When he says "come," she must not stay.
She must be all things to him--friend, comrade, sweetheart, wife. When
the infinite meaning of her dream slowly dawns upon her, is it strange
that she trembles and grows pale?

Soon or late it comes to all. Sometimes there is terror at the sudden
meeting and Love often comes in the guise of a friend. But always, it
brings joy which is sorrow, and pain which is happiness--gladness which
is never content.

A woman wants a man to love her in the way she loves him; a man wants a
woman to love him in the way he loves her, and because the thing is
impossible, neither is satisfied.

[Sidenote: The Strongest Passion]

Man's emotion is far stronger than woman's. His feeling, when it is
deep, is a force which a woman may but dimly understand. The strongest
passion of a man's life is his love for his sweetheart; woman's greatest
love is lavished upon her child.

"One is the lover and one is the loved." Sometimes the positions are
reversed, to