undred and ninety-nine take delight in
observing the contortions and convulsions of the patient. It is a great
satisfaction to them to compare the slight touch of ague they once had
when they were young with the raging sickness of a breaking heart; to
see a resemblance between the tiny scratch upon themselves, which they
delight in irritating, and the ghastly wound by which the tortured soul
has sped from its prison.

To tell the truth, they are not so very much to blame. Even the
momentary reflection of love is a good thing; at least, it is better
than to know nothing of it. One can fancy that a violin upon which no
one had ever played would yet be glad to vibrate faintly in unison with
the music of a more favored neighbor; it would bring a sensation of the
possibility of music. The stronger harmony is caught up and carried on
forever in endless sound waves, but the slight responsive murmur of the
passive strings is lost and forgotten.

And now you will tell me that I am making phrases. That is my
profession: I am a twister of words; I torture language by trade. You
know it, for you have known me a long time, and, if you will pardon my
vanity, or rudeness, I observe that my mode of putting the dictionary on
the rack amuses you. The fact that you ask for a story shows that well
enough. I am a plain man, and there never was any poetry in me, but I
have seen it in other people, and I understand why some persons like it.
As for stories, I have plenty of them. I, Paul Griggs, have seen a
variety of sights, and I have a good memory. There is the south-east
wind again. I was speaking of love, a moment ago,--there is a story of
the wind falling in love. There is a garden of roses far away to the
east, where a maiden lies asleep; the roses have no thorns in that
garden, and they grow softly about her and make a pillow for her fair
head. A blustering wind came once and nearly waked her, but she was so
beautiful that he fell deep in love; and he turned into the softest
breeze that ever fanned a woman's cheek in summer, for fear lest he
should trouble her sleep. There was a poor woman in rags, in the streets
of London, on that March night, but she could not soften the heart of
the cruel blast for all her shivering and praying; for she was very poor
and wretched, and never was beautiful, even when she was young.

That is a short tale, and it has no moral application, for it is too
common a truth. If people would only act directly