each other's heart
to find out the tenderest points, where an unkind word could strike
home! And this we call love!"

"My dear, don't take it so solemnly," he answered, trying a lighter
tone. "People may be ever so fond of each other, and yet disagree a
little at times; it can't be otherwise."

"Yes, yes!" she cried, "there must be a love for which discord is
impossible, or else--or else I have been mistaken, and what we call love
is nothing but--"

"Have no doubts of love!" he interrupted her, eagerly; and he depicted
in warm and eloquent words the feeling which ennobles humanity in
teaching us to bear with each other's weaknesses; which confers upon us
the highest bliss, since, in spite of all petty disagreements, it unites
us by the fairest ties.

She had only half listened to him. Her eyes had wandered over the fading
garden, she had inhaled the heavy atmosphere of dying vegetation--and
she had been thinking of the spring-time, of hope, of that all-powerful
love which was now dying like an autumn flower.

"Withered leaves," said she, quietly; and rising, she scattered with
her foot all the beautiful leaves which the wind had taken such pains to
heap together.

She went up the avenue leading to the house; he followed close behind
her. He was silent, for he found not a word to say. A drowsy feeling of
uneasy languor came over him; he asked himself whether he could overtake
her, or whether she were a hundred miles away.

She walked with her head bent, looking down at the flower-beds. There
stood the asters like torn paper flowers upon withered potato-shaws; the
dahlias hung their stupid, crinkled heads upon their broken stems, and
the hollyhocks showed small stunted buds at the top, and great wet,
rotting flowers clustering down their stalks.

And disappointment and bitterness cut deep into the young heart. As the
flowers were dying, she was ripening for the winter of life.

So they disappeared up the avenue. But the empty chair remained standing
in the half-withered summer-house, while the wind busied itself afresh
in piling up the leaves in a little cairn.

And in the course of time we all come--each in his turn--to seat
ourselves on the empty chair in a corner of the garden and gaze on a
little cairn of withered leaves.--

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

Since it is not only entertaining in itself, but also consonant with use
and wont, to be in love; and since in our innocent and moral society,
one c