The blue dove moaned out his heart’s desire; the copper beetle wooed and won his lady in the dust; butterflies and dragon-flies glittered in the wind, happy in their airy ecstasy--they fluttered among the hedges; they sported among the flowers--and all the earth rejoiced in having its heart’s desire. Thrush and mocker sang, “Passion, passion ... heart-breaking passion!” to their pretty feathered paramours. From every spray the vireo cried shrill, in shreds of melody, “Heart’s desire! Heart’s desire!” In the fragrant green-bay the painted bunting’s love-call rang incessantly; while from the tufted grove arose the stirring chant of earth’s universal choir, the canticle, all passionate and shrill, of “Love, love, love!” and yet again of “Love!” How can one keep it from the heart of youth, that, all unknowing, yet numb with longing, breathlessly awaits its coming, and trembles like a leaf with the wordless yearning of unrecognized desire. Gabrielle was intoxicated with the passion of her own heart, without an object or an aim; her throat was almost choked with youth’s sweet, innocent desire; and, ever, within her shaking heart, the questioning wonder grew. “Mother,” she said wistfully, “what is it fills the world with music day and night? What is it makes the whole world sing?” “Happiness,” replied Margot, “and joy of the spring.” “Happiness?” rejoined Gabrielle. “If it be happiness, why does it make my heart ache? Why does spring hurt me so?” Margot, startled, sat staring, wrung with sudden fear. “And what is this love of which every one sings--we women most of all?” “The source of all wretchedness. Leave it alone!” cried Margot. She looked at her daughter in terror. “But,” replied Gabrielle, wondering, “if love be the source of all wretchedness, why is it’s song so sweet?” “Because fools have their folly!” cried Margot. “Love-songs are sweet to a lover, as folly is dear to a fool. Worship thy God,” she said harshly, “and leave foolishness to the fool!” “Love--foolishness?” said Gabrielle, puzzled. “You told me that God is love!” She turned the riddle over and over in her mind. “What ails you?” asked Margot. “Nothing,” said Gabrielle. But a flush stole up her cheeks. “How does a woman know, Mother, that she loves, so that she may say certainly, ‘This is love’?” “By the utter despair that tears her heart in two.” “But, Mother,” protested Gabrielle, “they tell me that love is sweet!” “Sweet? As wormwood!” said Margot hoarsely. “It is nothing but fever and fret.” “Many I see who have it; but none who fret. Might I not know for myself a little of this pretty play of lovers and beloved?” besought Gabrielle. Margot looked at Gabrielle and trembled, seeing the shadow upon her, foreseeing the fate of her loveliness, perceiving indiscretion’s lips at the rim of the cup of terror. “What man has snared your silly heart?” she asked.