“Oh, pray do not make any imprudent revelations to me,” said she, pettishly; “which, apart from the indiscretion, would have the singular demerit of affording me not the slightest pleasure. I am not afflicted with the malady of curiosity.” “What a blessing to you! Now, I am the most inquisitive of mankind. I feel that if I were a clerk in a bank, I 'd spend the day prying into every one's account, and learning the exact state of his balance-sheet. If I were employed in the post-office, no terror of the law could restrain me from reading the letters. Tell me that any one has a secret in his heart, and I feel I could cut him open to get at it!” “I don't think you are giving a flattering picture of yourself in all this,” said she, peevishly. “I am aware of that, Miss Herbert; but I am also one of those who do not trade upon qualities they have no pretension to.” She flushed a deep crimson at this, and after a moment said,-- “Has it not occurred to you, sir, that people who seldom meet except to exchange ungracious remarks would show more judgment by avoiding each other's society?” Oh, how my heart thrilled at this pettish speech! In Hans Gruter's “Courtship,” he says, “I knew she loved me, for we never met without a quarrel.” “I have thought of that, too, Miss Herbert,” said I, “but there are outward observances to be kept up, conventionalities to be respected.” “None of which, however, require that you should come out and sit here while I am at my work,” said she, with suppressed passion. “I came out here to search for the newspaper,” said I, taking it up, and stretching myself on the grassy sward to read at leisure. She arose at once, and, gathering all the articles of her work into a basket, walked away. “Don't let me hunt you away, Miss Herbert,” said I, indolently; “anywhere else will suit me just as well. Pray don't go.” But without vouchsafing to utter a word, or even turn her head, she continued her way towards the house. “The morning she slapped my face,” says Hans, “filled the measure of my bliss, for I then saw she could not control her feelings for me.” This passage recurred to me as I lay there, and I hugged myself in the thought that such a moment of delight might yet be mine. The profound German explains this sentiment well. “With women,” says he, “love is like the idol worship of an Indian tribe; at the moment their hearts are bursting with devotion, they like to cut and wound and maltreat their god. With _them_, this is the ecstasy of their passion.”