ld me that I loved her. Was this true?

CHAPTER XV. THE LETTER FROM HOME

Feigning illness to O'Grady as the reason of my not going to the
Rooneys, I kept my quarters for several days, during which time it
required all my resolution to enable me to keep my promise; and scarcely
an hour of the day went over without my feeling tempted to mount my
horse and try if, perchance, I could not catch even a passing look at
her once more. Miss Bellew was the first woman who had ever treated me
as a man; this, in itself, had a strong hold on my feelings; for after
all, what flattery is there so artful as that which invests us with a
character to which we feel in our hearts our pretension is doubtful? Why
has college life, why has the army, such a claim upon our gratitude at
our outset in the world? Is it not the acknowledgment of our manhood?
And for the same reason the man who first accepts our bill, and the
woman who first receives our addresses, have an unqualified right to our
regard for evermore.

It is the sense of what we seem to others that moulds and fashions us
through life; and how many a character that seems graven in letters
of adamant took its type, after all, from some chance or casual
circumstance, some passing remark, some hazarded expression! We begin by
simulating a part, and we end by dovetailing it into our nature; thence
the change which a first passion works in every young mind. The ambition
to be loved and the desire to win affection teach us those ways of
pleasing, which, whether real or affected, become part and parcel of
ourselves. Little know we that in the passion we believe to be the most
disinterested how much of pure egoism is mixed up; and well is it for us
that such is the case. The imaginary standard we set up before ourselves
is a goal to strive for, an object of high hope before us; and few, if
any, of our bolder enterprises in after-life have not their birth in
the cradle of first love. The accolade, that in olden days by its magic
touch converted the humble squire into the spurred and belted knight,
had no such charm as the first beam from a bright eye, when, falling
upon the hidden depths of our heart, it has shown us a mine of rich
thoughts, of dazzling hopes, of bright desires. This indeed is a change;
and who is there, having felt it, has not walked forth a prouder and a
nobler spirit?

Thoughts like these came rushing on my mind as I reflected on my
passion for Louisa Bellew; an