egan to appear distant, not so
real, mixed, turbid, even frivolous. And was Henderson a vanishing part
of this pageant? Was his figure less distinct as the days went by? It
could not be affirmed. Love is such a little juggler, and likes, now and
again, to pretend to be so reasonable and judicious. There were no more
letters. If there had been a letter now and then, on any excuse, the
nexus would have been more distinct: nothing feeds the flame exactly like
a letter; it has intention, personality, secrecy. And the little
excitement of it grows. Once a week gets to be twice a week, three times,
four times, and then daily. And then a day without a letter is such a
blank, and so full of fear! What can have happened? Is he ill? Has he
changed? The opium habit is nothing to the letter habit-between lovers.
Not that Margaret expected a letter. Indeed, reason told her that it had
not gone so far as that. But she should see him. She felt sure of that.
And the thought filled all the vacant places in her imagination of the
future.

And yet she thought she was seeing him more clearly than when he was with
her. Oh wise young woman! She fancied she was deliberating, looking at
life with great prudence. It must be one's own fault if one makes a
radical mistake in marriage. She was watching the married people about
her with more interest-the Morgans, our own household, Mrs. Fletcher; and
besides, her aunt, whose even and cheerful life lacked this experience.
It is so wise to do this, to keep one's feelings in control, not to be
too hasty! Everybody has these intervals of prudence. That is the reason
there are so few mistakes.

I dare say that all these reflections and deliberations in the maidenly
mind were almost unconscious to herself; certainly unacknowledged. It was
her imagination that she was following, and scarcely a distinct reality
or intention. She thought of Henderson, and he gave a certain
personality, vivid maybe, to that dream of the future which we all in
youth indulge; but she would have shrunk from owning this even to
herself. We deceive ourselves as often as we deceive others. Margaret
would have repudiated with some warmth any intimation that she had lost
her heart, and was really predicting the practical possibilities of that
loss, and she would have been quite honest with herself in thinking that
she was still mistress of her own feeling. Later on she would know, and
delight to confess, that her destiny was fixed