t with discretion he passed rapidly on and upward to his
own room, and there he proceeded to write in his note-book.

CHAPTER XXII

There seems to be another curious thing about Love [Bibbs wrote].
Love is blind while it lives and only opens its eyes and becomes
very wide awake when it dies. Let it alone until then.

You cannot reason with love or with any other passion. The wise
will not wish for love--nor for ambition. These are passions
and bring others in their train--hatreds and jealousies--all
blind. Friendship and a quiet heart for the wise.

What a turbulence is love! It is dangerous for a blind thing to
be turbulent; there are precipices in life. One would not cross
a mountain-pass with a thick cloth over his eyes. Lovers do.
Friendship walks gently and with open eyes.

To walk to church with a friend! To sit beside her there! To rise
when she rises, and to touch with one's thumb and fingers the other
half of the hymn-book that she holds! What lover, with his fierce
ways, could know this transcendent happiness?

Friendship brings everything that heaven could bring. There is no
labor that cannot become a living rapture if you know that a friend
is thinking of you as you labor. So you sing at your work. For
the work is part of the thoughts of your friend; so you love it!

Love is demanding and claiming and insistent. Friendship is all
kindness--it makes the world glorious with kindness. What color
you see when you walk with a friend! You see that the gray sky
is brilliant and shimmering; you see that the smoke has warm
browns and is marvelously sculptured--the air becomes iridescent.
You see the gold in brown hair. Light floods everything.

When you walk to church with a friend you know that life can give
you nothing richer. You pray that there will be no change in
anything for ever.

What an adorable thing it is to discover a little foible in your
friend, a bit of vanity that gives you one thing more about her to
adore! On a cold morning she will perhaps walk to church with you
without her furs, and she will blush and return an evasive answer
when you ask her why she does not wear them. You will say no
more, because you understand. She looks beautiful in her furs;
you love their darkness against her cheek; but you comprehend that
they conceal the loveliness of her throat