sensitive, and often fell into pitfalls and did what he should not, and yet, for all that, he had a quaint and gentle mind, and there was something to like in him—­at least, so thought the women in that book.  There was a heroine, too, who was all that a heroine should be, very sweet and very beautiful, and she really had a heart, only she would not let it beat.  And of course the hero and heroine loved each other:  of course, too, they both behaved badly, and things went wrong, or there would have been no book.

“But I tell you this story because once, in a rather touching scene, this hero who made such a mess of things set forth one of the ideas that he had found, and thought new, but which was really so very old.  He told the heroine that he had read in the stars that happiness has only one key, and that its name is ‘Love,’ that, amidst all the mutabilities and disillusions of our life, the pure love of a man and woman alone stands firm and beautiful, alone defies change and disappointment; that it is the heaven-sent salve for all our troubles, the remedy for our mistakes, the magic glass reflecting only what is true and good.  But in the end her facts overcame his theories, and he might have spared himself the trouble of telling.  And, for all his star-gazing, this hero had no real philosophy, but in his grief and unresting pain went and threw himself into the biggest pitfalls that he could find, and would have perished there, had not a good angel come and dragged him out again and brushed the mud off his clothes, and, taking him by the hand, led him along a safer path.  And so for awhile he drops out of the story, which says that, when he is not thinking of the lost heroine, he is perhaps happier than he deserves to be.

“Now, Arthur, I think that this foolish hero was right, and the sensible heroine he worshipped so blindly, wrong.

“If you are still unmarried, and still care to put his theories to the test, I believe that we also can make as beautiful a thing of our lives as he thought that he and his heroine could, and, ourselves supremely happy in each other’s perfect love, may perhaps be able to add to the happiness of some of our fellow-travellers.  That is, I think, as noble an end as a a man and woman can set before themselves.

“But if, on the other hand, you are tied to this other woman who loves you by ties that cannot be broken, or that honour will not let you break; or if you are unforgiving, and no longer wish to marry me as I wish to marry you, then till that bright hour of immortal hope—­ farewell.  Yes, Arthur, farewell till the gate of Time has closed for us—­till, in the presence of God our Father, I shall for ever call you mine.

“Alas!  I am so weak that my tears fall as I write the word.  Perhaps I may never speak or write to you again, so once more, my dearest, my beloved, my earthly treasure and my heavenly hope, farewell.  May the blessing of God be as constantly around you as my thoughts, and may He teach you that these are not foolish words, but rather the faint shadow of an undying light!