I formed a romantic affection, perhaps in my seventeenth year, for a new girl who moved into our village. She appealed to my imagination, being so different from the girls I had known. Beautiful, with deep, proud, dark eyes, she was a good student; had read much more than I had; and could translate Virgil far better, all of which made me look up to her. Strange to say, I wasn’t jealous of her. We studied Greek and Roman history together, and astronomy. There were four of us girls, and two of the boys, who met at our various homes certain evenings studying together. The old Greek and Roman names, and the constellations, are inseparably linked in memory, particularly with that lovely dark-eyed girl and, yes, those two boys. It was a good fellowship I had with the boys, no nonsense--at least, hardly any. The boys had their own sweethearts who met with us, as a rule, though they were less studious than we were. I think at that time I was vaguely conscious of being liked by these boys in a different way than they liked their sweethearts--because I was a girl and because I was companionable besides. There was always a certain piquancy about it. And this has always been a pleasing consciousness in connection with my men friends. I never could be satisfied with a friendship taking cognizance of but one of the factors. At the time of which I am speaking, though, I would have been distinctly annoyed at any open manifestation on the part of the boys of interest other than _camaraderie_. In fact a little later I was angered at occasional demonstrations in one who was a faithless swain; for he would often manage to take his sweetheart home first and thus walk home alone with me. I felt sorry for her because she had so little spirit; chided her for letting him tyrannize over her; upbraided him for being fickle; and tried to be a disinterested friend to both. Yet as time passed there were a few occasions when, silencing my scruples, I permitted advances on his part of which I was heartily ashamed. He would take us both for a drive, and after leaving her at her home, would attempt to put his arm around me. Although at first repulsing him angrily, at length I suffered it, knowing all the time that it was wrong. How tender and persuasive his tones as we drove along, yet he would be talking about the most commonplace things, and I would sit there straight and unyielding with burning cheeks. I knew it was wrong for two reasons--because he was Bessie’s “beau,” and because I didn’t really like him that way; yes, and also because it was wrong to let any one put his arm around you. The second reason seemed the stronger, and I was ashamed of myself for being susceptible to his wooing tones and ingratiating ways while really despising such faithlessness. Had he tried to kiss me, I think I should have annihilated him on the spot. In fact, I think I hardly dreamed of such an advance to _me_ then being possible. I doubt if any other boy of my acquaintance would have