Oh, yes; thank heaven and the people who wrote them down, there are in books many more like these. "I s'pose lots didn't get into the books at all," said Miggy, thoughtfully. It is seldom that one finds and mourns a bird that is dead. But think of the choir of little bright breasts whose raptures nobody hears, nobody misses, nobody remembers. How like them we are, we of the loving hearts. "I wouldn't wonder if there's lots of folks being that way right, right now," concluded Miggy. Who am I that I should doubt this? "A tournament," said Miggy, dreamily; "I s'pose that was something like the Java entertainment is going to be." She slipped to one side of the big chair and laid both hands on its arm. "Listen," she said. "Would this be one? You know Delly Watson that's crazy? She was in love with Jem Pitlaw, a school teacher that used to be here, an' that died, an' that wasn't in love with her even if he had stayed living, and it did that to her. You know ... she talks about things that nobody ever heard of, and listens, and laughs at what she thinks she hears. Ain't that like Elaine?" Yes, if poor Delly Watson of the village had had a barge and a dwarf and a river winding from towered city to towered city, she would not have been unlike Elaine. "And Jerry, that sets up folks's stoves and is so in love with the music teacher that he joined the chorus and paid his dues and set in the bass corner all winter to watch her and he can't sing a note. And she don't even see him when she passes him. Ain't that like Beatrice and the Pale Man?" Jerry is so true and patient, and our young music teacher is so fair, that no one could find it sacrilege to note this sad likeness. "And Mis' Uppers that her husband went out West and she didn't get any word, and he don't come, and he don't come, and she's selling tickets on the parlour clock, and she cries when anybody even whistles his tunes--isn't that some like Brunhilde, that you said about, waiting all alone on top of the mountain? I guess Brunhilde had money, but I don't think Mis' Uppers' principal trouble is that she ain't. With both of 'em the worst of it must 'a' been the waiting." And I am in no wise sure that that slow-walking woman in the pointed gray shawl may not have a heart which aches and burns and passions like a valkyr's. "And Mame Wallace, that her beau died and all she's got is to keep house for the family, and keep house, and _keep_ house. It seems as if she's sort of like Psyche, that had such an awful lot of things to do--and her life all mussed up." Perhaps it is so that in that gaunt Mame Wallace, whose homing passion has turned into the colourless, tidy keeping of her house, there is something shining, like the spirit of Psyche, that would win back her own by the tasks of her hand.