nough of life to be making love ardently and persistently to Conway,
the handsome young actor. I can readily believe that Number Five will
outlive the Tutor, even if he is fortunate enough rather in winning
his way into the fortress through gates that open to him of their own
accord. If he fails in his siege, I do really believe he will die early;
not of a broken heart, exactly, but of a heart starved, with the food
it was craving close to it, but unattainable. I have, therefore, a deep
interest in knowing how Number Five and the Tutor are getting along
together. Is there any danger of one or the other growing tired of the
intimacy, and becoming willing to get rid of it, like a garment which
has shrunk and grown too tight? Is it likely that some other attraction
may come into disturb the existing relation? The problem is to my mind
not only interesting, but exceptionally curious. You remember the
story of Cymon and Iphigenia as Dryden tells it. The poor youth has the
capacity of loving, but it lies hidden in his undeveloped nature. All at
once he comes upon the sleeping beauty, and is awakened by her charms to
a hitherto unfelt consciousness. With the advent of the new passion all
his dormant faculties start into life, and the seeming simpleton
becomes the bright and intelligent lover. The case of Number Five is as
different from that of Cymon as it could well be. All her faculties are
wide awake, but one emotional side of her nature has never been called
into active exercise. Why has she never been in love with any one of her
suitors? Because she liked too many of them. Do you happen to remember a
poem printed among these papers, entitled "I Like You and I Love You"?

No one of the poems which have been placed in the urn,--that is, in the
silver sugar-bowl,--has had any name attached to it; but you could guess
pretty nearly who was the author of some of them, certainly of the one
just, referred to. Number Five was attracted to the Tutor from the first
time he spoke to her. She dreamed about him that night, and nothing
idealizes and renders fascinating one in whom we have already an
interest like dreaming of him or of her. Many a calm suitor has been
made passionate by a dream; many a passionate lover has been made wild
and half beside himself by a dream; and now and then an infatuated
but hapless lover, waking from a dream of bliss to a cold reality of
wretchedness, has helped himself to eternity before he was summoned t