And when they laugh at you about it, you turn it off, perhaps, with saying—“It isn’t so;” but afterward, in your chamber, or under the tree where you have cut her name, you take Heaven to witness that it is so; and think—what a cold world it is, to be so careless about such holy emotions! You perfectly hate a certain stout boy in a green jacket, who is forever twitting you, and calling her names; but when some old maiden aunt teases you in her kind, gentle way, you bear it very proudly; and with a feeling as if you could bear a great deal more for _her_ sake. And when the minister reads off marriage announcements in the church, you think how it will sound one of these days, to have your name, and hers, read from the pulpit—and how the people will look at you, and how prettily she will blush; and how poor little Dick, who you know loves her, but is afraid to say so, will squirm upon his bench. —Heigho! mused I—as the blue smoke rolled up around my head—these first kindlings of the love that is in one, are very pleasant! but will they last? You love to listen to the rustle of her dress, as she stirs about the room. It is better music than grown-up ladies will make upon all their harpischords in the years that are to come. But this, thank Heaven, you do not know. You think you can trace her foot-mark, on your way to the school; and what a dear little foot-mark it is! And from that single point, if she be out of your sight for days, you conjure up the whole image—the elastic lithe little figure—the springy step—the dotted muslin so light and flowing—the silk kerchief, with its most tempting fringe playing upon the clear white of her throat—how you envy that fringe! And her chin is as round as a peach—and the lips—such lips! and you sigh, and hang your head, and wonder when you _shall_ see her again! You would like to write her a letter; but then people would talk so coldly about it; and besides you are not quite sure you could write such billets as Thaddeus of Warsaw used to write; and anything less warm or elegant would not do at all. You talk about this one, or that one, whom they call pretty, in the coolest way in the world; you see very little of their prettiness; they are good girls to be sure; and you hope they will get good husbands some day or other; but it is not a matter that concerns you very much. They do not live in your world of romance; they are not the angels of that sky which your heart makes rosy, and to which I have likened the blue waves of this rolling smoke. You can even joke as you talk of others; you can smile—as you think—very graciously; you can say laughingly that you are deeply in love with them, and think it a most capital joke; you can touch their hands, or steal a kiss from them in your games, most imperturbably—they are very dead coals.