horses, the incidents of our hunting adventures, and
the novelty of our associations, created a glow of spirit which burst
forth in unrestrained conversation, mirth, and song. Now, then, I began
to display my literary acquisitions. During the long evenings in our
tent, or the wigwam of an Indian, or the log cabin of a backwoods
settler, we alternated in reading aloud from an excellent collection of
books I had prepared. Reading introduced topics of conversation, in
which I employed all that I had in memory, and all that had been created
in myself by the electric collision of great authors. Never did a
professional wit more ingeniously produce as sudden coruscations the
_bon mots_ tediously studied; never did a philosophical
conversationalist use to more advantage the wisdom conned over in the
closet. I talked eloquently, profoundly. I rattled forth witticisms and
poetical quotations. I amazed her. The man whom she thought incapable of
any ideas beyond his ledger, and the stock market, and the cotton
warehouse, was revealed as a person of taste and reading. Instead of
appearing to her merely an indifferent person, to whom her fate had been
chained, and whom she regarded in somewhat the same manner as Prometheus
did his rock, I had become a pleasant companion,--a being of more
vitality than she had perhaps ever met.

Still, I had not excited the emotion of love. I did not expect it at
this stage of the treatment, but I observed its absence with a pang.

For woman's love is not a slowly extorted tribute to excellence, but a
spontaneous bestowal. Unlike evil spirits, which, according to popular
superstition, need urging over the threshold before they can enter and
possess the hearthstone. Love leaps in unsolicited at any unguarded
aperture, and becomes master of the household.

Only genius could command her homage, and to this I could make no
pretension.

Love is oftener a response to appreciation, than a concession granted
upon a rational estimate of him who seeks it. She did not yet know that
I appreciated her. The time for her to learn it had not come.

The casket of a woman's heart is oftener forced than opened with a key.

Love had once entered my wife's soul, and, after accomplishing his
mischief, left demons in possession. I could not exorcise--only charm
them. For the present,--perhaps for years,--I must be content with this.
In the distant future, which had a dim horizon of hope, I expected to
make some final