eave-taking in the moonlight. To
be sure, Margaret walked with Henderson, and they lagged a little behind,
but I had no reason to suppose that they were speaking of the stars, or
that they raised the ordinary question of their being inhabited. I doubt
if they saw the stars at all. How one remembers little trifles, that
recur like the gay bird notes of the opening scenes that are repeated in
the tragedy of the opera! I can see Margaret now, on some bantering
pretext, running back, after we had said good-night, to give Henderson
the blush-rose she had worn in her hair. How charming the girl was in
this freakish action!

"Do you think he is good enough for her?" asked my wife, when we were
alone.

"Who is good enough for whom?" I said, a yawn revealing my want of
sentiment.

"Don't be stupid. You are not so blind as you pretend."

"Well, if I am not so blind as I pretend, though I did not pretend to be
blind, I suppose that is mainly her concern."

"But I wish she had cared for Lyon."

"Perhaps Lyon did not care for her," I suggested.

"You never see anything. Lyon was a noble fellow."

"I didn't deny that. But how was I to know about Lyon, my dear? I never
heard you say that you were glad he wasn't your husband."

"Don't be silly. I think Henderson has very serious intentions."

"I hope he isn't frivolous," I said.

"Well, you are. It isn't a joking matter--and you pretend to be so fond
of Margaret!"

"So that is another thing I pretend? What do you want me to do? Which one
do you want me to make my enemy by telling him or her that the other
isn't good enough?"

"I don't want you to do anything, except to be reasonable, and
sympathize."

"Oh, I sympathize all round. I assure you I've no doubt you are quite
right." And in this way I crawled out of the discussion, as usual.

What a pretty simile it is, comparing life to a river, because rivers are
so different! There are the calm streams that flow eagerly from the
youthful sources, join a kindred flood, and go placidly to the sea, only
broadening and deepening and getting very muddy at times, but without a
rapid or a fall. There are others that flow carelessly in the upper
sunshine, begin to ripple and dance, then run swiftly, and rush into
rapids in which there is no escape (though friends stand weeping and
imploring on the banks) from the awful plunge of the cataract. Then there
is the tumult and the seething, the exciting race and rage through the
can