rdly more than a school-girl. It was my first winter!
He was young, attractive, somewhat wild, and quite the _fashion_
that year, and in fact ever since. He is a dainty love-maker. He is
ready with a hundred delicate little attentions unknown to most men,
and highly gratifying to most women. But after all their influence is
limited--at least with me. His actual presence is necessary. Mamma
opposed the match--for we were engaged (never announced) at one time.
She always disliked him, and on that one subject has always been
unreasonable. But she has more influence over me than he has, or ever
could have. She can generally eradicate the dangerous effects of his
presence. This he resented--and rightly. I must renounce mother, home,
every thing, and come to him, or--I must cling to him and let all other
things go. He recognized no middle course; I constantly sought one. I
put him off; I made him many promised, and meant them all--when with
him. Finally he was forbidden the house, and now we barely more than
speak. He is somewhat devoted to a half dozen or more of our best young
women, and they are all more or less devoted to him. The world---our
little world--once said we would marry; but the world has decided that
it was, mistaken, and that we did not even love one another. And did we,
or not? In short, do we?

There are times, moments of despondency, more frequent here of late,
when something within whispers, "You are waiting too long! You are,
indeed, far above par, but will it last?"

The credit of my Banking-House (social) is apparently without limit. My
pretty face stands well the wear and tear of hard social work. My worst
female enemy dares not call me _passe_ in the slightest degree,
although I am a shade beyond the uncertain age of twenty-five. But
surely these strange premonitions must come as a warning. They surely
mean something. My womanly intuition--and it can be trusted--plainly
prompts me to give up this dangerous, ruinous policy of

=Flirting for Revenue Only=.

I must abandon my little formulas of speech and manners. I must quit
making eyes. I must grant myself a pause in this social farce. I must
try to let myself love the man whom my _real honest self_ hath
chosen years ago. The man I drove from my door for the sake of
_general revenue_. The man against whom I closed my heart! But will
he come back again? Will his proud spirit brook an uncertainty? But,
after all, is it _well worth_, the while? T