I understand, understand even better than you, and so I suffer even more than you.  But why should either of us suffer for what neither of us is to blame for?  If there is any blame, it belongs to me and I can only make the old, yet strongest plea that can be offered, I love you; and I know that my love, my great love, infinitely overbalances that blame and blots it out.  What is it that stands in the way of our happiness?  It is not what you feel or what I feel; it is not what you are or what I am.  It is what others feel and are.  But, oh! is that a fair price?  In all the endeavors and struggles of life, in all our strivings and longings, there is only one thing worth seeking, only one thing worth winning, and that is love.  It is not always found; but when it is, there is nothing in all the world for which it can be profitably exchanged.

The second morning after, I received a note from her which stated briefly that she was going up into New Hampshire to spend the summer with relatives there.  She made no reference to what had passed between us; nor did she say exactly when she would leave the city.  The note contained no single word that gave me any clue to her feelings.  I could gather hope only from the fact that she had written at all.  On the same evening, with a degree of trepidation which rendered me almost frightened, I went to her house.

I met her mother, who told me that she had left for the country that very afternoon.  Her mother treated me in her usual pleasant manner, which fact greatly reassured me; and I left the house with a vague sense of hope stirring in my breast, which sprang from the conviction that she had not yet divulged my secret.  But that hope did not remain with me long.  I waited one, two, three weeks, nervously examining my mail every day, looking for some word from her.  All of the letters received by me seemed so insignificant, so worthless, because there was none from her.  The slight buoyancy of spirit which I had felt gradually dissolved into gloomy heart-sickness.  I became preoccupied; I lost appetite, lost sleep, and lost ambition.  Several of my friends intimated to me that perhaps I was working too hard.

She stayed away the whole summer.  I did not go to the house, but saw her father at various times, and he was as friendly as ever.  Even after I knew that she was back in town, I did not go to see her.  I determined to wait for some word or sign.  I had finally taken refuge and comfort in my pride, pride which, I suppose, I came by naturally enough.

The first time I saw her after her return was one night at the theatre.  She and her mother sat in company with a young man whom I knew slightly, not many seats away from me.  Never did she appear more beautiful; and yet, it may have been my fancy, she seemed a trifle paler, and there was a suggestion of haggardness in her countenance.  But that only heightened her beauty; the very delicacy of her charm melted down the strength of my pride.  My situation made me feel weak and powerless, like a man trying with his bare hands to break the iron bars of his prison cell.  When the performance was over, I hurried out and placed myself where, unobserved, I could see her as she passed out.  The haughtiness of spirit in which I had sought relief was all gone, and I was willing and ready to undergo any humiliation.