an explanation with Mildred.  He manages to walk alone with her through the unguarded orchards which lie along the Rhine; and there, somewhat abruptly, he begins to moralize on the grand passion.  Mildred remarks what a happy woman she would have been whom Dunsford had loved; when the lucky thought strikes him that he would tell her his own story, never yet told to any one.  And then he tells it, very simply and very touchingly.  Like most true stories of the kind, it has little incident; but it constituted the romance, not yet outlived, of the old—­gentleman’s existence.  He and a certain Alice were brought up together.  Like many of the most successful students, Dunsford hated study, and was devoted to music and poetry, to nature and art.  But he knew his only chance of winning Alice was to obtain some success in life, and he devoted himself to study.  Who does not feel for the old man recalling the past, and, as he remembered those laborious days, saying to the girl by his side, “Always reverence a scholar, my dear; if not for the scholarship, at least for the suffering and the self-denial which have been endured to gain the scholar’s proficiency.”  His only pleasure was in correspondence with Alice.  He succeeded at last.  He took his degree, being nearly the first man of his year in both of the great subjects of examination; and he might now come home with some hope of having made a beginning of fortune.  A gay young fellow, a cousin of Alice, came to spend a few days; and of course this lively, thoughtless youth, without an effort, carried off the prize of all poor Dunsford’s toils.  You never win the thing on which your heart is set and your life staked; it falls to some one else who cares very little about it.  It is poor compensation that you get something you care little for which would have made the happiness of another man.  Dunsford discovers one evening, in a walk with Alice, the frustration of all his hopes:—­

Alice and I were alone again, and we walked out together in the evening.  We spoke of my future hopes and prospects.  I remember that I was emboldened to press her arm.  She returned the pressure, and for a moment there never was, perhaps, a happier man.  Had I known more of love, I should have known that this evident return of affection was anything but a good sign; “and,” continued she, in the unconnected manner that you women sometimes speak, “I am so glad that you love dear Henry.  Oh, if we could but come and live near you when you get a curacy, how happy we should all be.”  This short sentence was sufficient.  There was no need of more explanation.  I knew all that had happened, and felt as if I no longer trod upon the firm earth, for it seemed a quicksand under me.

The agony of that dull evening, the misery of that long night!  I have sometimes thought that unsuccessful love is almost too great a burden to be put upnn such a poor creature as man.  But He knows best; and it must have been intended, for it is so common.