her, made her a couch of moss and dried leaves, and while she slept he watched over her until the day dawned.  Then he conducted her to a wood-chopper’s cabin in the forest, where she was tenderly cared for.  The poor, proud youth would hear no thanks from the maiden.  He sent a note, without his name, to the proud Judge, telling him where his daughter could be found; and never saw the beautiful maiden, or proud rich Judge afterwards.  This, ladies,” with the same gay banter, “is the romance of the Judge’s daughter and the poor student.”

“And I suspect,” said Miss Giddings, seriously, “that it is about the literal truth of the affair, and it is more romantic than I had thought.”

* * * * *

“Barton has made the acquaintance of poor Sartliff,” said Ida, willing to introduce a new subject, “and was much struck by him.”

“Do you think he is actually shattered?” asked Miss Giddings.

“I really have no opinion.  His mind moves in such unaccustomed channels:  we find it in such unusual haunts, that nobody can tell whether it remains healthy or not.  It works logically enough, granting his premises.  Of course he is under delusions—­we should call them mistakes merely, if they occurred in ordinary speculations; but with him, in his abnormal pursuits, they are to be expressed under the vapory forms of delusions.”

“Oh, it is the saddest sight to see this young man, with a nature so richly endowed, asking only for light, and the right way; to see him turning so blindly from the true given light, and searching with simple earnestness along sterile, rocky byways and thorny hedges, to find the path or opening that conducts back to a true starting place.  He opens his bosom to sun and air, and bares his feet to the earth, thinking that inspiration will, through some avenue, reach his senses, and so inform him.  It is the most pitiful spectacle that the eye can see,” said Ida, pathetically.

“Like a kind spirit sent from heaven to earth,” said Bart, “who, having forgotten his message, can never find his way back; but is doomed to wander up and down the uncongenial region, searching in vain for the star-beam by which he descended.”

“My father has quite given him up,” said Miss Giddings; “he says he passed long since the verge of healthy thought and speculation.  I used to think that possibly some new and powerful stimulus, such as might spring from some new cause—­”

“Love, for instance,” suggested Bart.

“Yes, love, for instance.  I declare, Mr. Ridgeley, you think as a woman.”

“Do women really think?  I thought their minds were so clear and strong that thought was unnecessary, and they were always blest with intuitions.”

“Well, sir, some of them are obliged to think—­when they want to be understood by men, who don’t have intuitions, and can’t go at all without something to hold up by—­and a woman would think, perhaps, that if Sartliff could fall in love—­”