Heat so intense as this consumes very fast; and the matter it feeds fastest on is—judgment; and with judgment gone, there is room for jealousy to creep in. You grow petulant at another sight of that tall boy; and the one tear, which cured your first petulance, will not cure it now. You let a little of your fever break out in speech—a speech which you go home to mourn over. But she knows nothing of the mourning, while she knows very much of the anger. Vain tears are very apt to breed pride; and when you go again with your petulance, you will find your rosy-lipped girl taking her first studies in dignity. You will stay away, you say—poor fool, you are feeding on what your disease loves best! You wonder if she is not sighing for your return—and if your name is not running in her thought—and if tears of regret are not moistening those sweet eyes. —And wondering thus, you stroll moodily and hopefully toward her father’s home; you pass the door once—twice; you loiter under the shade of an old tree, where you have sometimes bid her adieu; your old fondness is struggling with your pride, and has almost made the mastery; but in the very moment of victory, you see yonder your hated rival, and beside him, looking very gleeful and happy—your perfidious Louise. How quickly you throw off the marks of your struggle, and put on the boldest air of boyhood; and what a dextrous handling to your knife, and what a wonderful keenness to the edge, as you cut away from the bark of the beech tree all trace of her name! Still there is a little silent relenting, and a few tears at night, and a little tremor of the hand, as you tear out—the next day—every fly-leaf that bears her name. But at sight of your rival—looking so jaunty, and in such capital spirits—you put on the proud man again. You may meet her, but you say nothing of your struggles—oh, no, not one word of that!—but you talk with amazing rapidity about your games, or what not; and you never—never give her another peep into your boyish heart! For a week you do not see her—nor for a month—nor two months—nor three. —Puff—puff once more; there is only a little nauseous smoke; and now—my cigar is gone out altogether. I must light again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] II WITH A WISP OF PAPER THERE are those who throw away a cigar, when once gone out; they must needs have plenty more. But nobody that I ever heard of keeps a cedar box of hearts, labeled at Havana. Alas, there is but one to light!