There was the same want of comprehension, I may call it, in reference to propriety of conduct.  A certain nobleness, and freedom from all that was petty and cold, kept her from coquetry.  At the same time she had a womanish vanity about her admirers, and entire freedom in speaking of them.  In vain I endeavored to insinuate the unpleasant truth, that the fervency of her adorers was no compliment to her.  She could not understand that she ought to shrink from the implied imputation of such manifestations.

Somewhat out of patience, one day, at her pleasure in receiving a bouquet of rare flowers from one of these adorers, I said,—­

“Isn’t this the person who you said professed an attachment to you, or rather sent heliotrope to you and told you it meant je vous aime?”

“The very man!” said she, smiling.

“Then I am sure you are, as I should be, sadly mortified at his continuing these attentions.”

“I don’t see why I should be mortified,” said she, “He may be, if he likes.”

“You know what the poet says, Lulu, and it is excellent sense,—­

    ’In part she is to blame that has been tried,
    He comes too near that comes to be denied.’”

The crimson tide rippled over her forehead at this, but it was only a passing disturbance, and she answered sweetly,—­

“I don’t think you are quite fair,” as if she had been playing at some game with me.

Apparently, too, she had as little religious as moral sense, though she called herself a member of the Church, and said she was confirmed at twelve years old.

But once, in speaking of Mr. Lewis’s going to church, she told me, “William has no religion at all.”  Much in the same way she would have said he had not had luncheon.  A strange responsibility, if he felt it, had this William, a man nearly forty years old, for this young creature not yet twenty-three, and with powers so undeveloped and a character so unbalanced!

In the ten days we passed together I often wished I could have known her early, or that I now had a right to say to her what I would.  However, perhaps I overestimated the influence of outward circumstances.

We parted rather suddenly, and in the next three years they were mostly in Cuba, while my husband was called to leave Weston for a larger field of usefulness.

We had lived more than a year in Boston, and it was in the autumn of 1833 that I sat alone by a sea-coal fire, thinking, and making out faces in the coal.  I was too absorbed to hear the bell ring, or the door open, till I felt a little rustle, and a soft, sudden kiss on my lips.  I was no way surprised, for Lulu’s was the foremost face in the coals.  Mr. Lewis was close behind her, with my husband.  As soon as the astral was lighted, we gazed wistfully for a few moments at each other.  Each looked for possible alteration.

“You have been ill!”

“And you have had something besides Time.”