vain to establish
and believe in a transparent self-deceit. "It was about a book, or
something. It weighs upon my mind that she should deem me neglectful
of her wishes. Once more, therefore, and then--"

"Where away, so late in the autumn?" inquired a friend, who saw me
starting out.

"Down the bay, blue-fishing!" I exclaimed. "Just the real time for
it."

"Ah? Well, good-by, then! Rather too cold sport for me, though!"

Therefore, I saw Jessie again--and yet again after that. Why should I
not confess it?--or, after what I have already told, what is there
left for me to confess, at all? For now, at last, I began to
acknowledge to myself that it was not mere friendship or esteem I
felt, but, rather, the more overpowering passion of real love. Gone,
like a thin veil of vapor, were all my sophistries about a limited
Platonic interest; my dread of incongruous association; my resolves
against possible rashnesses; my fear of the world or its senseless
gossip; my prudence, or my self-restraint! These all seemed to vanish
in a day; and, yielding myself, slavishly, a willing captive to bright
eyes and silvery tones, upon one fine morning I passed the Rubicon of
safety, and offered her my hand and heart. But, to my sore dismay,
she only softly shook her head.

"You do not love me, then?" I murmured. I spoke not merely with sorrow
and disappointment, but with something of wounded pride--feeling
mortified that she had not at once accepted my devotion. Certainly, it
had seemed to me, all along, that I was not disagreeable to her; and
there was no doubt that in her manner, at least, she had always
cordially welcomed my approach, and taken pleasure in my company.

"I do not know--I hardly yet can tell!" she faintly said, drawing her
hand from mine. "To me, you are my best and dearest friend; perhaps,
the only one whom I can really call my friend. I know how glad I
always feel when you come hither; how lonely I am while you stay away.
But this I do not think is love--the real, true love which I should
wish to feel."

"But can it never be?" I pleaded.

"How can I tell? It might come to that, at last; and yet--" She
ceased, and there came over her face a strange, dead look at the sea
before her--a straining gaze, as though she would fix her eyes far
beyond, in another hemisphere, oblivious of the present.

"Yet tell me, Jessie, have I a rival? This, at least, you might let me
know. I will not go further, nor will I ask his n