n the
eye of the beholder.

TRANSFERABLE LIVES

I sometimes have a fancy to speculate how, supposing the matter still
undecided, I would like to spend my life. Often I feel how good it would
be to give it in service to one of my six dear friends: just to offer it
to them as so much capital, for whatever it may be worth. In pondering the
fancy, I need hardly say that I do not assess myself at any extravagant
value. I but venture to think that the devotion of one human creature,
however humble, throughout a lifetime, is not a despicable offering. To
use me as they would, to fetch and carry with me, to draw on me for
whatever force resides in me, as they would on a bank account, to the last
penny, to use my brains for their plans, my heart for their love, my blood
for added length of days: and thus be so much the more true in their love,
the more prosperous in their business, the more buoyant in their
health--by the addition of _me_.

But then embarrassment comes upon me. Which of my friends do I love the
most? To whose account of the six would I fain be credited? Then again I
think of the ten thousand virgins who go mateless about the world, sweet
women, with hearts like hidden treasure, awaiting the 'Prince's kiss' that
never comes; virgin mothers, whose bosoms shall never know the light warm
touch of baby-hands:

'Pale primroses
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength.'

How often one sees such a one in train or omnibus, her eyes, may be,
spilling the precious spikenard of their maternal love on some happier
woman's child. I noticed one of them withering on the stalk on my way to
town this morning. She was, I surmised, nearly twenty-eight, she carried a
roll of music, and I had a strong impression that she was the sole support
of an invalid mother. I could hardly resist suggesting to one of my men
companions what a good wife she was longing to make, what a Sleeping
Beauty she was, waiting for the marital kiss that would set all the sweet
bells of her nature a-chime. I had the greatest difficulty in preventing
myself from leaning over to her, and putting it to her in this way--

'Excuse me, madam, but I love you. Will you be my wife? I am just turning
thirty. I have so much a year, a comfortable little home, and probably
another thirty years of life to spend. Will you not go shares with me?'

And my imagination went on making pictures: how her e