ough to death
to elevate me into a heroine for after life.

I looked in the glass, and seeing large, dark eyes, a healthful bloom,
and rather pretty features, I concluded that I need not belong to the
plain and amiable order, and began to wish most enthusiastically for
some romantic admirer; some one who would expose himself to the danger
of a sore throat and influenza for the sake of serenading me--who would
be rather glad than otherwise to risk his life by jumping down a
precipice to bring me some descried wild flower, and who, when away from
me, would pass his time in writing extravagant poetry, of which I was to
be the bright divinity. Old as I am, I feel almost ashamed to repeat
this nonsense now; and had I then possessed more sense myself, or made
by mother the confidant of these flights of fancy, I need not now relate
my own silly experience to warn you from the effects of novel-reading.

Charles Tracy did not at all realize my romantic ideas of a hero; and
one bright day the dissatisfaction which had been gradually gathering in
my mind expressed itself in words. I had gone down to a lake at the
bottom of the garden to indulge in high-flown meditations; and Charles
Tracy stood beside one of the boats which were always kept there.

"Come, Amy," said he, as I drew near, "it is a beautiful day--let us
have a row across the lake."

"No," said I, twining my arm around one of the young trees near, "I
prefer remaining here."

"You had better come with me," rejoined Charles, "instead of keeping
company there with the snapping-turtles. Well," he added after a short
pause, "if you will not come with me, why I must go alone."

"Go, then!" said I, bitterly, "you love your own pleasure a great deal
better than you do me!"

"Why Amy!" he exclaimed, coming close to me as though doubtful of my
sanity, "how very strangely you talk! You know that I love you very
much," he continued, "for haven't we been together and quarrelled with
each other ever since I can remember? And do I not now bear the marks of
the time when you threw the cat in my face to end our childish dispute?
And the scar where you stuck the pen-knife in my arm? And don't you
remember how you used to pull my hair out by handfuls? How can I help
loving you when I call to mind all these tender recollections?"

This reply provoked me very much; and I answered energetically: "You do
_not_ love me!--you do not know how to love I When did you ever make any
sacrif