who had lived twenty-eight whole years; as a
woman in love with the young man of twenty-eight, I longed to
disbelieve in them. Which shows that the real nature of the individual
is finer than life is. Life would make us all cynics if the noble in
some of us did not find truth too plebeian a fellow to keep company
with. I have long since suspected that truth is not that beautiful
nude young person one sees rising out of wells at Academy Exhibitions.
Illusion, at any rate, is every whit as real a factor of the universe,
and it is far more agreeable to live with. So, naturally, Morgan, I
chose it to live with, hoping, of course, it was not illusion.
However, there _was_ a sweet, little girl?"

"Your inference from my poem was perfectly correct."

"Farewell, my fine dreams," said Helen, in mock-heroic declamation,
which did not blind him to the pain beneath. "But you'll introduce me
to her, won't you?"

"It's the sweet little girl's sister," he corrected; "but I can't
introduce you to her, because I shall never see her again."

"You _shall_ see her again," said Helen. "Don't be such a faint
heart."

"Even if I were free, I am not fit even to look at her."

"The sooner you get a more appreciative conception of yourself, the
better."

"Truth has too great a hold over me for that."

"How fine it must be to be loved by you," half-mused Helen. "With you
it is first love and everlasting."

"Yes, it is everlasting. It is a quality of my fibre, divinely inwoven
like mind in matter. It is something immortal, so that even if
Margaret change and forget me wholly, she can never take away the
living fragrance that came to me in the first times. I have loved her
and shall love her always."

"What nice things you say. If they could only have been inspired by
me! But all that is over now. So her name's Margaret. I am sure she
will never change, nor even begin to forget you, Morgan. But won't you
begin to read those chapters now? I do so want to hear them."

He placed them before her unreservedly and she at length had his life
complete. But when he had finished he was alarmed at her pallor.

"You are not well, Helen," he cried impulsively.

"'Tis nothing. I shall be all right in a moment." She drew her breath
heavily. "It feels like pins and needles," she added. "I want to get
the transition over now, though it is rather an abrupt one."

"The transition!" he repeated, only half-comprehending.

"Yes. It is attended with qu