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744 nature. Being very much on her own hands, and in the habit of talking for her own entertainment rather than that of her listener, she condescended to give me the benefit of some of her experience. She was quite candid about it. " It is great folly in me to waste sense upon you at your age; but I fancy it is in you to really love a woman one of these days, and then, perhaps, you may appreciate it. When a proud, sensitive woman—and it is such you will surely worship—begins to really love you, she will first show it by acting as though she hated you. Unless it arises from righteous indignation, rudeness from a thoroughbred lady is, next to irrepressible tenderness, the surest proof of love. They may not be equally delightful, but they are equally flattering; for, in each case, she is giving you what she gives no one else." As I think of those words, I wonder—I more than wonder, I almost hope.

Sunday Night.—This morning, I chose what I suppose would be considered the better part, I went to church. Verily, I had my reward. On my way back, I met Miss Glenn returning alone from her service. As I walked at her side, she said very little, and I saw that her face wore the old "uphill" look. I asked her what had been the subject of the sermon she had heard. "The joys of Heaven," she said. "And yet, as sermons often do, it has only depressed me." I looked straight into her eyes. If I said what was on my lips, I might be deciding the course of my whole life. If I were a mere acquaintance, in saying it I should commit the unpardonable sin—that of intruding into the deepest recesses of her spiritual nature. But there is a unity which knows no intrusion, in which the subtlest reading is welcomed as love's sacred recognition. I determined to speak. "There is one text from which I have wished to preach you a sermon since the first moment I saw you—'Remember Lot's wife. She started faintly and turned perceptibly paler. Then she looked straight down the street; and I walked on until we reached her home, not knowing whether I had not forever shut the gates of the temple upon myself. When we reached the steps, she said, quietly, "Will you come in?" "Is this mere courtesy, or do you really wish it?" I asked, abruptly, determined to make her speak out. A quiver of indignant pain went over her face as she said, with that low concentration of voice which feeling always produces with her, "I did not expect that from you." "Can't you understand," I broke out, in her own tone, but with a man's fire and passion added, "that there might be something so precious to me that I should grow morbidly suspicious as to whether it could be given me in truth and reality?" I saw the bright color tinge the half-averted face; and, a moment after, she said, with shy eyes that refused to meet mine, "Will you come in?" I went in.

May 27th.—Since that Sunday morning I have seen Esther Glenn repeatedly in her own home. I choose times when no one is likely to be there, and we have long, quiet talks, from which I take away a sense, not only of happiness, but completeness, which does not fade away, but only sinks deeper into my nature, as I come into contact with the harsh, discordant world of men and business. Her manner has almost lost its nervous constraint and returned to its early charm and brightness—but "with a difference." I cannot define it, but it thrills to my very heart.

June 13th.—I thought I had grown reasonable enough, had cooled off sufficiently, to write down intelligibly what has happened; but I am afraid I was mistaken. My entire life and consciousness appear to date from two days ago, and yet to have been of endless duration. "In the beginning" seems to me to