dge in the gardens, every
thought in my once melancholy self. All that was old is young, and all
that was sad is glad, and I am the gladdest of all. Whatever heaven
may be, there is no earthly paradise without woman, nor is there
anywhere a place so desolate, so dreary, so unutterably miserable that
a woman cannot make it seem heaven to the man she loves and who loves
her.

I hear certain cynics laugh, and cry that all that has been said
before. Do not laugh, my good cynic. You are too small a man to laugh
at such a great thing as love. Prayers have been said before now by
many, and perhaps you say yours, too. I do not think they lose
anything by being repeated, nor you by repeating them. You say that
the world is bitter, and full of the Waters of Bitterness. Love, and
so live that you may be loved--the world will turn sweet for you, and
you shall rest like me by the Waters of Paradise.

A MEMORABLE NIGHT

By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

Copyright 1891 by Anna Katharine Green.

CHAPTER I

I am a young physician of limited practice and great ambition. At the
time of the incidents I am about to relate, my office was in a
respectable house in Twenty-fourth Street, New York City, and was
shared, greatly to my own pleasure and convenience, by a clever young
German whose acquaintance I had made in the hospital, and to whom I had
become, in the one short year in which we had practised together, most
unreasonably attached. I say unreasonably, because it was a liking for
which I could not account even to myself, as he was neither especially
prepossessing in appearance nor gifted with any too great amiability of
character. He was, however, a brilliant theorist and an unquestionably
trustworthy practitioner, and for these reasons probably I entertained
for him a profound respect, and as I have already said a hearty and
spontaneous affection.

As our specialties were the same, and as, moreover, they were of a
nature which did not call for night-work, we usually spent the evening
together. But once I failed to join him at the office, and it is of
this night I have to tell.

I had been over to Orange, for my heart was sore over the quarrel I had
had with Dora, and I was resolved to make one final effort towards
reconciliation. But alas for my hopes, she was not at home; and, what
was worse, I soon learned that she was going to sail the next morning
for Europe. This news, coming as it did without warning, aff