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 loved me — nothing more. She was mine as much as I wanted. The day dawned when I wanted her all in all. The happiest day for us both.

ARIE was mine as much as I wanted. Among the many mean and cunning arts of love which are taught to our young women, the ugliest is that which says that woman ought always to make a favour of herself. Love thus becomes a transaction in which woman sells herself to the highest bidder. This is degrading to love, and still more to woman. He loves her, she loves him. Both have the same longing, the same desire. How mean then to deny her lover his natural right, and only to give it to him as a charity for which he must humbly pray.

If a woman told me she loved me and yet looked demure or took offence at my passion, I would turn from her with impatience and let her go as unworthy of love. Marie never said me nay. She followed my call as patiently as the lamb follows the shepherd's gentle whistle. I have called Marie at all times, when she was tired, and when she slept—but she came to me ever with smiling face, and never did she feel anything but joy in answering her lover's call, only too proud that he should call her so often.

If Solomon, the kingly poet, had known you, Marie, he would have written to you like this:—

'The shepherd is down in the valley playing on his reed. He is longing for his beloved, who has