“Go on, dear girl. Tell me that this man adores you, and I will never, while I live, trouble you with myself again.” “Ah, no! it was nothing like that which I set out to tell you. Ah, no! I only wished to let you know—that your case of disappointed affection is not solitary—that I too have missed life’s crowning joy—the love of one I love. He does not even notice me now. I never permit myself to dream that he will ever love me. Yet I would like to live with him, to serve him—myself unknown, unnoticed, if I might only be near him. I envy the waiting-maids and men, and even the dogs, who are full-feasted every day, with the presence for which my heart starves. I would like to give my life to his service, but I am unnecessary to his smallest need. Well! I cannot do him any good; but I serve one who is dear to him, and so I stay the hunger of my heart. Please do not think ill of me for telling you all this. It would grieve me to have you think any evil of me. I esteem you, and want your esteem. I have done some violence to my instincts in telling you this. Do not think ill of me for doing so. I only do it that you may know you are not the only one in the world who is——_not happy_.” “Think ill of you, Catherine! Do anything but adore you—and mourn your loss forever—if lose you I must—oh, Heaven!” “This life is a tragedy—for always that which is dearest, is lost in it, and it ends in death. The closing scene is the corpse, the shroud, the coffin—and the curtain drops upon the grave—all beyond is hidden—except to the eye of faith. My experience of life has been all darkness, clouds and storm—and the transient gleams of gladness or of hope have been—not like the sunshine, but like the lightning. Yet through all the grief, and gloom, and the tempting doubt, the ‘still, small voice’ of God’s spirit has spoken to my soul, and comforted me.” “Oh, Catherine, my child! that I could make your life all sunshine—that you would let me try—I do believe I could make you happy.” Catherine shook her head, slowly, with a sad smile, saying— “We all believe that! We all think that in _us only_ is vested the power of making those we love happy. It is because we know that we are willing, anxious to do more for them than any other person would! It is a fond error. Our efforts—our greatest sacrifices are often needless, as we ourselves are nothing to our gods of flesh.” “Am I nothing—nothing to you, then?” “You are my dear and honored friend.” “Oh, Catherine, I could make your life happy! Nay, but do not look incredulous—I know I _could_. My love is not selfish, like that of most other men. It is perfectly disinterested. It only asks to serve you. It only desires to see you at ease. Dear Kate, you have told me all on your heart—you might lay that heart, with all its burden of unrequited affection, upon my bosom, and I would comfort, and cherish, and sustain it, until I should win its love all to myself.” Again, and more mournfully, the girl shook her head—