h."

"What do you mean?" I asked in a white heat of unreasonable rage.

"I hope you won't try to repair things by marrying this--young person."

"To make an honest woman of her, do you mean?" I asked grimly.

"Yes," said my aunt.

Then suddenly the Devil leaped into me and stirred all the elements of
unrest, anger, and longing together in a cauldron which I suppose was my
heart. The result was explosion. I made a step forward with raised hands
and my aunt recoiled in alarm.

"By heaven!" I cried, "I would give the soul out of my body to marry
her!"

And I stumbled out of the house like a blind man.

From that moment of dazzling revelation till now I have nursed this
infinite desire. To say that I love Carlotta is to express Niagara in
terms of a fountain. I crave her with everything vital in heart and
brain. She is an obsession. The scent of her hair is in my nostrils,
the cooing dove-notes of her voice murmur in my ears, I shut my eyes
and feel the rose-petals of her lips on my cheek, the witchery of her
movements dances before my eyes.

I cannot live without her. Until to-day the house was desolate enough--a
ghostly shell of a habitation. Henceforward, without her my very life
will be void. My heart has been crying for her these two weeks and I
knew it not. Now I know. I could stand on my balcony and lift up my
hands toward the south where she abides, and lift up my voice, and cry
for her passionately aloud. There is no infernal foolishness in the
world that I could not commit tonight. The maddest dingo dog, if he
could appreciate my state of being, would learn points in insanity.

It is two o'clock. I must go to sleep. I take from my shelves Epictetus,
who might be expected to throw cold water on the most burning fever
of the mind. I have not read far before I come across this consolatory
apophthegm: "The contest is unequal between a charming girl and a
beginner in philosophy." He is mocking me, the cold-blooded pedagogue! I
throw his book across the room. But he is right. I am but a beginner
in philosophy. No armour wherein my reason can invest me is of avail
against Carlotta. I have no strength to smite. I am helpless.

But by heaven! Am I mad? Is not this on the contrary the sanest hour
of my existence? I have lived like an automaton for forty years, and
I suddenly awake to find myself a man. I don't care whether I sleep or
not. I feel gloriously, exultingly young. I am but twenty. As I have
never