to himself, both theoretically and practically; but in regard to women he cherishes the superstition of the romances that love is once for all, and forever.  It was because Beaton would not believe that Alma Leighton, being a woman, could put him out of her heart after suffering him to steal into it, that he now hoped anything from her, and she had been so explicit when they last spoke of that affair that he did not hope much.  He said to himself that he was going to cast himself on her mercy, to take whatever chance of life, love, and work there was in her having the smallest pity on him.  If she would have none, then there was but one thing he could do:  marry Christine and go abroad.  He did not see how he could bring this alternative to bear upon Alma; even if she knew what he would do in case of a final rejection, he had grounds for fearing she would not care; but he brought it to bear upon himself, and it nerved him to a desperate courage.  He could hardly wait for evening to come, before he went to see her; when it came, it seemed to have come too soon.  He had wrought himself thoroughly into the conviction that he was in earnest, and that everything depended upon her answer to him, but it was not till he found himself in her presence, and alone with her, that he realized the truth of his conviction.  Then the influences of her grace, her gayety, her arch beauty, above all, her good sense, penetrated his soul like a subtle intoxication, and he said to himself that he was right; he could not live without her; these attributes of hers were what he needed to win him, to cheer him, to charm him, to guide him.  He longed so to please her, to ingratiate himself with her, that he attempted to be light like her in his talk, but lapsed into abysmal absences and gloomy recesses of introspection.

“What are you laughing at?” he asked, suddenly starting from one of these.

“What you are thinking of.”

“It’s nothing to laugh at.  Do you know what I’m thinking of?”

“Don’t tell, if it’s dreadful.”

“Oh, I dare say you wouldn’t think it’s dreadful,” he said, with bitterness.  “It’s simply the case of a man who has made a fool of himself and sees no help of retrieval in himself.”

“Can any one else help a man unmake a fool of himself?” she asked, with a smile.

“Yes.  In a case like this.”

“Dear me!  This is very interesting.”

She did not ask him what the case was, but he was launched now, and he pressed on.  “I am the man who has made a fool of himself—­”

“Oh!”

“And you can help me out if you will.  Alma, I wish you could see me as I really am.”

“Do you, Mr. Beacon?  Perhaps I do.”

“No; you don’t.  You formulated me in a certain way, and you won’t allow for the change that takes place in every one.  You have changed; why shouldn’t I?”

“Has this to do with your having made a fool of yourself?”