ghtning,
Bring fire into his brain:
To him a whisper is a wound,
A look or sneer, a blow;
More pangs he feels in years or months
Than dunce-throng'd ages know."

I have had such a curious experience. I have been confided in, twice in
one day. Two more bits out of other lives have been given to me, and it is
astonishing to see how well they piece into mine.

To begin with, Rachel English came in early. There is something
particularly auspicious about Rachel. She fits me like a glove. She never
jars nor grates. When she is here, I am comfortable; when she is gone, I
miss something. If I see a fine painting, or hear magnificent music, I
think of Rachel before any other thought comes into my mind. One
involuntarily associates her with anything wonderfully fine in art or
literature, with the perfect assurance that she will be sympathetic and
appreciative. She understands the deep, inarticulate emotions in the
kindred way you have a right to expect of your lover, and which you are
oftenest disappointed in, if you do expect it of him. If I were a man, I
should be in love with Rachel.

Her sensitiveness through every available channel makes her of no use to
general society. Blundering people tread on her; malicious ones tear her
to pieces. Rachel ought to be caged, and only approached by clever people
who have brains enough to appreciate her. I should like to be her keeper.
But her organization is too closely allied to that of genius to be happy,
unless with certain environments which it is too good to believe will ever
surround her. She is so clever that she is perfectly helpless. If you knew
her, this would not be a paradox. Possibly it isn't anyway.

I do not say that Rachel is perfect. She would be desperately
uncomfortable as a friend if she were. Her failings are those belonging to
a frank, impulsive, generous nature, which I myself find it easy to
forgive. Her gravest fault is a witty tongue. That which many people would
give years of their lives to possess is what she has shed the most tears
over and which she most liberally detests in herself. She calls it her
private demon, and says she knows that one of the devils, in the woman who
was possessed of seven, was the devil of wit.

Wit is a weapon of defence, and was no more intended to be an attribute of
woman than is a knowledge of fire-arms or a fondness for mice. A witty