Where both deliberate the love is slight. Who ever loved that love not at first sight? _Marlowe._ Love and joy are torches lit From altar-fires of sacrifice. —_Coventry Patmore._ Elsworth had lived all this time hitherto in Spain without falling in love;—quite a phenomenal attitude for a healthy young fellow in a land like this, where the women’s eyes, their figures, and incomparable grace, usually make havoc with the men’s hearts. But as yet he had escaped the notice of Cupid, or perhaps the little god was disgusted with his peculiar theories on the subject, and had let him alone out of contempt. Our hero held that love was a kind of zymotic disease, and, like its congeners, could only be caught where there was a predisposition or suitable nidus in the patient. He thought it was very like hydrophobia in some respects, and might be compared to small pox in others. The best way to minimise its attacks was to get vaccinated in early life. You could have a mild “cultivation” of the bacillus. He thought he had undergone this business with Linda, and attributed his immunity to that cause. Now the “protection” of the aforesaid inoculation was very severely tried when Mildred appeared on the scene. Mildred was so sweet and angelic, so kindred in every way to his ideal of what a perfect woman should be, that he had to confess to himself that, impossible as it was for him to descend to the weakness of falling in love, nothing possibly could be more delightful than to have Mildred always near him. It will be seen that our young doctor had very imperfectly studied all the phases which his disorder of love could assume. Far more capable physicians in this branch of practice were his gipsy friends. The Gitanos at once detected that he was suffering from the malady in one of its acutest forms. No man should ever doctor himself; he cannot diagnose properly; it is as unwise as to be one’s own lawyer. It was remarked that he had lost his gaiety, was absorbed in his own thoughts, and spoke often abstractedly, sighed frequently, and had a “far-off look” about his eyes which showed them that his heart was not at Granada. These acute observers knew all about the beautiful Englishwoman who had met their friend, and the guide told them a good deal of his own impressions on the matter. They all agreed that he was in love. At last our hero was fain to confess there was truth in the poet’s lines, that “In the arithmetic of life, The smallest unit is a pair.”