of passion.

Little Madge is a friend of Nelly's,--a mischievous, blue-eyed hoiden.
They tease you about Madge. You do not of course care one straw for her,
but yet it is rather pleasant to be teased thus. Nelly never does this;
oh no, not she. I do not know but in the age of childhood the sister is
jealous of the affections of a brother, and would keep his heart wholly
at home, until, suddenly and strangely, she finds her own wandering.

But after all Madge is pretty, and there is something taking in her
name. Old people, and very precise people, call her Margaret Boyne. But
you do not: it is only plain Madge; it sounds like her, very rapid and
mischievous. It would be the most absurd thing in the world for you to
like her, for she teases you in innumerable ways: she laughs at your big
shoes, (such a sweet little foot as she has!) and she pins strips of
paper on your coat-collar; and time and again she has worn off your hat
in triumph, very well knowing that you--such a quiet body, and so much
afraid of her--will never venture upon any liberties with her gypsy
bonnet.

You sometimes wish in your vexation, as you see her running, that she
would fall and hurt herself badly; but the next moment it seems a very
wicked wish, and you renounce it. Once she did come very near it. You
were all playing together by the big swing; (how plainly it swings in
your memory now!) Madge had the seat, and you were famous for running
under with a long push, which Madge liked better than anything
else;--well, you have half run over the ground when, crash! comes the
swing, and poor Madge with it! You fairly scream as you catch her up.
But she is not hurt,--only a cry of fright, and a little sprain of that
fairy ankle; and as she brushes away the tears and those flaxen curls,
and breaks into a merry laugh,--half at your woe-worn face, and half in
vexation at herself,--and leans her hand (such a hand!) upon your
shoulder, to limp away into the shade, you dream your first dream of
love.

But it is only a dream, not at all acknowledged by you; she is three or
four years your junior,--too young altogether. It is very absurd to talk
about it. There is nothing to be said of Madge, only--Madge! The name
does it.

It is rather a pretty name to write. You are fond of making capital M's;
and sometimes you follow it with a capital A. Then you practise a little
upon a D, and perhaps back it up with a G. Of course it is the merest
accident that the