or you see he was barely twenty, and to have met your ideal so early
in life is apt to rob the remainder of the journey of something of its
zest.

I asked him to give me his idea of what the Blessed Maid should be, to
which he replied, with a smile, that he could not do better than
describe Her, which he did for the sixth time. It was, as I had
foreseen, the picture of a Saint, a Goddess, a Dream, very lovely and
pure and touching; but it was not a woman, and it was a woman I was in
search of, with all her imperfections on her head. I suppose no boy of
twenty really loves a WOMEN, but loves only his etherealised extract of
woman, entirely free from earthy adulteration. I noticed the words
"pure" and "natural" in constant use by my young friend. Some lines
went through my head, but I forbore to quote them:--

Alas I your so called purity
Is merely immaturity,
And woman's nature plays its part
Sincerely but in woman's art.

But I couldn't resist asking him, out of sheer waggery, whether he
didn't think a touch of powder, and even, very judiciously applied, a
touch of rouge, was an improvement to woman. His answer went to my
heart.

"Paint--a WOMAN!" he exclaimed.

It was as though you had said--paint an angel!

I could bear no more of it. The gulf yawned shiveringly wide at
remarks like that; so, with the privilege of an elder, I declared it
time for bed, and yawned off to my room.

Next morning we bade good-bye, and went our several ways. As we
parted, he handed me a letter which I was not to open till I was well
on my journey. We waved good-bye to each other till the turnings of
the road made parting final, and then, sitting down by the roadside, I
opened the letter. It proved to be not a letter, but a poem, which he
had evidently written after I had left him for bed. It was entitled,
with twenty's love for a tag of Latin, Ad Puellam Auream, and it ran
thus:--

The Golden Girl in every place
Hides and reveals her lovely face;
Her neither skill nor strength may find--
'T is only loving moves her mind.
If but a pretty face you seek,
You'll find one any day or week;
But if you look with deeper eyes,
And seek her lovely, pure, and wise,
Then must you wear the pilgrim's shoon
For many a weary, wandering moon.

Only the pure in heart may see
That lily of all purity,
Only in clean unsullied thought
The image of her face is caught,
And only he her love may ho