“You true Pygmalion,” cried he, “make a maid!— But all maids grow to us, when wedded once; For practical, they are, far more than men, And bow to powers that be. Though caught, like fish, Through bait they crave not ere men tender it, They cleave to love once offer’d them; nor turn, Like male-friends, clinging—true as iron, forsooth— To each new stronger magnet! Were they thus, Our homes might hardly hold our rivals there. Accept the facts, friend; in this world of reals, Ideals must give way. So look to Grace,— Despite your protest, your true mate; and love In maids like her is limitless when won. You like her, too; now, now”— LVII. And so we talk’d. I never thought it meant much; for we talk’d Of all things, almost; and, in play, at times, Would I indulge in hopes that he was right. Once too, far up in clouds, my fancy feign’d To question if her friends, or she, would wish My calling to be hers. I scarce had dream’d Of Elbert’s giving weight to whims like this. Yet after that I mark’d him much with Grace; But naught surmised until, one time, he said: “All right, my Norman; I have talk’d with her; All but to tell her why I talk’d with her; And with her parents talk’d, and now they all Agree in praising plans of life like yours; These latter actually sighing oft, ‘Would we but had a son for work like that!’ So, friend, your way is clear.” LVIII. But was it clear?— So sure was it, that I could pluck this fruit? If sure, so sure the Eden open’d not To tempt, as well as bless me?—Could it be That love could yet be mine?—The hope seem’d sweet; Yet strange!—Why strange?—The change?— Seem’d all change so?— Yet marriage?—Why did mortals marry then?— For love, they said, for love. And what was love? What more than liking well?—Whom liked I so; And all in all, and always?—Edith?—What?— And liked her calling?—If I liked not that, I liked not her, not wholly. If not her, Then liked I no one wholly; and my will In love, as in all other earthly states, A choice must make,—take one of different boons, And all imperfect. Why should not my love Serve thus my judgment? Grace could stand this test, And life with one like her so sweet could be! LIX.