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 frivolous song of the birds, which must hurt all decent and peace-loving moles. But please leave Marie alone, and don't criticise her youthful wanderings in life's labyrinth.

Marie is like a butterfly rioting in a garden. Every flower is tempting her and whispering, 'Come to me, beautiful butterfly!' Only the flower with whom the butterfly cares most to stay says, 'Don't trust me, very soon I will drive you away.'

Now I know the secret hope which Marie, in spite of all, nursed in a corner of her heart. But I know, too, that she did not dare to reckon on a hope which she feared even to confess to herself. Therefore our relationship seemed to her a happiness lent for but a little moment, a windfall of happiness quite outside life's bargain, and for which she need not make account. Afterwards she would have a long life before her in which to be an honest man's honest wife.

So without remorse, nay, with a proud sense of doing the right thing, she gave herself to me in beautiful serenity.

OME profane authors say, 'beautiful as Sin'! I am not profane, and I don't think they are right. Sin is hideous. Her face is distorted, her lips are white, her hands are palsied, and like a coward she prowls the world in the owl-dark night. Her evil breath poisons all the joy of life.

I know Sin; I have feasted with her. Doleful