—And with a little suddenness of manner I tear off a wisp of paper, and, holding it in the blaze of my lamp, relight my cigar. It does not burn so easily, perhaps, as at first: it wants warming before it will catch; but presently it is in a broad, full glow that throws light into the corners of my room. —Just so—thought I—the love of youth, which succeeds the crackling blaze of boyhood, makes a broader flame, though it may not be so easily kindled. A mere dainty step, or a curling lock, or a soft blue eye are not enough; but in her, who has quickened the new blaze, there is a blending of all these, with a certain sweetness of soul that finds expression in whatever feature or motion you look upon. Her charms steal over you gently and almost imperceptibly. You think that she is a pleasant companion—nothing more: and you find the opinion strongly confirmed, day by day; so well confirmed, indeed, that you begin to wonder why it is that she is such a delightful companion? It can not be her eye, for you have seen eyes almost as pretty as Nelly’s; nor can it be her mouth, though Nelly’s mouth is certainly very sweet. And you keep studying what on earth it can be that makes you so earnest to be near her, or to listen to her voice. The study is pleasant. You do not know any study that is more so, or which you accomplish with less mental fatigue. Upon a sudden, some fine day, when the air is balmy, and the recollection of Nelly’s voice and manner more balmy still, you wonder—if you are in love? When a man has such a wonder, he is either very near love or he is very far away from it; it is a wonder that is either suggested by his hope or by that entanglement of feeling which blunts all his perceptions. But if not in love, you have at least a strong fancy—so strong that you tell your friends carelessly that she is a nice girl—nay, a beautiful girl; and if your education has been bad, you strengthen the epithet on your own tongue with a very wicked expletive, of which the mildest form would be “deuced fine girl!” Presently, however, you get beyond this, and your companionship and your wonder relapse into a constant, quiet habit of unmistakable love—not impulsive, quick and fiery, like the first, but mature and calm. It is as if it were born with your soul, and the recognition of it was rather an old remembrance than a fresh passion. It does not seek to gratify its exuberance and force with such relief as night serenades, or any Jacques-like meditations in the forest; but it is a quiet, still joy, that floats on your hope into the years to come—making the prospect all sunny and joyful.