watered with tears, shall it grow into a sturdy tree, defiant of the
winds, 'neath which Darby and Joan shall sit sheltered in old age.

They had commonsense, brave hearts. Darby had expected too much. Darby
had not made allowance for human nature which he ought to have done,
seeing how much he had of it himself. Joan knows he did not mean it.
Joan has a nasty temper; she admits it. Joan will try, Darby will try.
They kiss again with tears. It is a workaday world; Darby and Joan will
take it as it is, will do their best. A little kindness, a little
clasping of the hands before night comes.

Many ways of Love.

Youth deems it heresy, but I sometimes wonder if our English speaking way
is quite the best. I discussed the subject once with an old French lady.
The English reader forms his idea of French life from the French novel;
it leads to mistaken notions. There are French Darbys, French Joans,
many thousands of them.

"Believe me," said my old French friend, "your English way is wrong; our
way is not perfect, but it is the better, I am sure. You leave it
entirely to the young people. What do they know of life, of themselves,
even. He falls in love with a pretty face. She--he danced so well! he
was so agreeable that day of the picnic! If marriage were only for a
month or so; could be ended without harm when the passion was burnt out.
Ah, yes! then perhaps you would be right. I loved at eighteen,
madly--nearly broke my heart. I meet him occasionally now. My dear"--her
hair was silvery white, and I was only thirty-five; she always called me
"my dear"; it is pleasant at thirty-five to be talked to as a child. "He
was a perfect brute, handsome he had been, yes, but all that was changed.
He was as stupid as an ox. I never see his poor frightened-looking wife
without shuddering thinking of what I have escaped. They told me all
that, but I looked only at his face, and did not believe them. They
forced me into marriage with the kindest man that ever lived. I did not
love him then, but I loved him for thirty years; was it not better?"

"But, my dear friend," I answered; "that poor, frightened-looking wife of
your first love! Her marriage also was, I take it, the result of
parental choosing. The love marriage, I admit, as often as not turns out
sadly. The children choose ill. Parents also choose ill. I fear there
is no sure receipt for the happy marriage."

"You are arguing from bad examples," a