out emotionally.  I reviewed my life of the last four years.  It seemed to show much more heartache, anxiety, and suffering than pleasure.  I concluded that this unsatisfactory result was inseparable from the pursuit of illegitimate amours.  I saw that my work had been interfered with, and that I was in debt, owing to the same cause.  Yet I felt that I could never do without a woman.  In this quandary I found myself thinking that marriage was the only salvation for me.  Then I should always have a woman by me.  I was sufficiently sensible to know that unless there were congenial tastes and sympathies, a marriage could not turn out happily, especially as my chief interests in life (after woman) were literature, history, and philosophy.  But I imagined that if I could find a girl who would satisfy the condition of being an intellectual companion to me, all my troubles would be over; my sexual desire would be satisfied, and I could devote myself to work.

“In this frame of mind I turned my thoughts more seriously in the direction of a girl whom I had known for some two years.  Her age was nearly the same as mine.  My family and hers were acquainted with one another.  I had established a platonic friendship with her.  Undoubtedly the prime attraction was that she was young and pretty.  But she was also a girl of considerable character.  Without being as well educated as I was, she was above the average girl in general intelligence.  She was fond of reading; books formed our chief subject of conversation and common interest.  She was, in fact, a girl of more intelligence than I had yet encountered.  On her side, as I afterward discovered, the interest in me was less purely platonic.  Our relations toward one another were absolutely correct.  Yet we were intimate, informal, and talked on subjects that would be considered forbidden topics between two young persons by most people.  I felt she was a true friend.  She, too, confided to me her troubles.

“We corresponded with one another frequently.  Sometimes it occurred, to me that it was rather strange she should be so keen to write to me, to hear from me, and to see me; but I had never thought of her, consciously, except as a friend; I never for a moment imagined she thought of me except as an interesting and intelligent friend.  Nor did the idea of illicit love ever suggest itself to me.  She was one of those women whose face and expression put aside any such thought.  I was, indeed, inclined to regard her as a good influence on me, but as passionless.  I confided to her the affair of D.C., which took place during our acquaintance.  She was distressed, but sympathetic and not prudish.  I did not suspect the cause of her distress; I thought it was owing to her disappointment in the ideals she had formed of me.  She invited me to join her and her family for a part of the summer (I had now left the university, having obtained my degree in low honors) and I decided to join them.  At