Of All Faults The One

I Don't Believe There's A Man In Milton Who Knows How To Sit Still; And It Is A Great Art.

Even Before He Left The Room, — And Certainly, Not Five Minutes After, The Clear Conviction Dawned Upon Her, Shined Bright Upon Her, That He Did Love Her; That He Had Loved Her; That He Would Love Her. And She Shrank And Shuddered As Under The Fascination Of Some Great Power.

For All His Pain, He Longed To See The Author Of It. Although He Hated Margaret At Times, When He Thought Of That Gentle Familiar Attitude And All The Attendant Circumstances, He Had A Restless Desire To Renew Her Picture In His Mind - A Longing For The Very Atmosphere She Breathed. He Was In The Charybdis Of Passion, And Must Perforce Circle And Circle Ever Nearer Round The Fatal Centre.

How Shall I Ever Tell Aunt Shaw?' She Whispered, After Some Time Of Delicious Silence. 'let Me Speak To Her.' 'oh, No! I Owe It To Her, - But What Will She Say?' 'i Can Guess. Her First Exclamation Will Be, "that Man!" ' 'hush!' Said Margaret, 'or I Shall Try And Show You Your Mother's Indignant Tones As She Says, "that Woman!"

Well, He Had Known What Love Was-a Sharp Pang, A Fierce Experience, In The Midst Of Whose Flames He Was Struggling! But, Through That Furnace He Would Fight His Way Out Into The Serenity Of Middle Age,-all The Richer And More Human For Having Known This Great Passion.