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 given him. Now that I feel how necessary she is to me, am I meekly to carry her to his home? Rob my home to adorn his?

No—and yet. Dare I keep her back?

To-day, yes. But to-morrow—who knows what one's heart may whisper to-morrow?

OR who knows but that one's dream-castle may be all fallen into ruins by to-morrow. To-day this woman is everything to you—life seems valueless without her. You are ready to fight and slay for her sake, if only you may keep her. All brightness, all joy and beauty seem concentrated in her personality. She is your sun, and with her setting all the world grows dark.

But yesterday. Think of yesterday! What was she then? A pretty toy. A sweet mistress, dearer and sweeter perhaps than any other, yet only a toy, a moment's pleasure, a fleeting summer day.

If any one had said to you then, 'Some day you will give your life for this woman,' you would have laughed in his face, and sworn your biggest oath that nothing was further from your mind.

But was she not even then as beautiful and attractive, just as good and just as much in love with you as now? Yes, certainly. She was just the same. It is your way of looking at her which has changed. Gold is gold—and through all the ages it has been beautiful to look upon. But it was not till gold was stamped into coins that it gained its high value, and if some day another