“Enthusiastic, mother! Gracious Heavens, mother! one must be cold, dead, yes, a _corpse_—a corpse! I mean a _statue_—one must never have _had_ life—a statue! I should rather have said a _block of marble_—one must never have had _form_ not to be inspired with enthusiasm by that girl—that seraph!” “Hey! Master Gusty! have you fallen in love with Rosalia?” “Speak low, mother! Oh! breathe her name in flute-like tones—for, mother! when I speak of enthusiasm, I mean the rapt enthusiasm of the adoring saint for his guardian angel! the silent enthusiasm with bended knees, clasped hands, and upraised eyes, mother!” “Humph! not the enthusiasm for instance that Hagar inspired some weeks ago—a passion that was going to compel you to send the planets whirling against each other!” archly smiled Emily. “Mother, no more of that ‘an you love me.’” “So you have got over your phrensy for Hagar?” “Why, mother,—_of course_,” said Gusty, assuming a look of shocked propriety, “_of course_—you did not suppose I was going to keep on loving her _now_, did you?” “I should hope not, certainly; and I am glad your lips confirm my hope.” “I am a man of honor, mother!” said Gusty, dilating. “Certainly you are, my love! I am very sure of that—nevertheless, Master Gusty, I cannot really give you credit for the exertion of any great moral power in this affair. I think that your passion has been conquered as the Indians conquer danger when pursued by the flames of a burning prairie—fire by fire—love by love.” “Stop, mother! be just—despair and conscience did much for me even before I left her.” “And yet that was a great infatuation of yours, and now here is another quite as great—I am afraid you are fickle, Gusty! Have you really quite ceased to regret Hagar?” “Quite, mother.” “And care nothing at all about her?” “Oh! stop—_yes_, I care a great deal about her in—in a brotherly way, you understand! in fact, just as I always _did_, until I had to go mad about her, you know. Care about Hagar? yes! I guess I do! Let any fellow crook his finger at Hagar, and see if he don’t get his neck twisted, that’s all? It is singular that I should have got into such a delirium, is it not, though? and more singular that I should have got out of it—don’t you think so, mother?” “No, indeed—it is perfectly natural—the ‘harder it storms the sooner it is over’ is an acknowledged atmospherical fact, and by all that ever I have seen, it is as true of passionate as it is of atmospheric storms. I hope that you will never marry during the raging of any phrensy of passion—for, if you do, you will be very apt to make yourself and another miserable for the rest of your lives.” “You may well call it a phrensy—a storm, mother! Gracious Heavens! yes! That intoxicating Hagar! I used to reel away from her whirling, spinning, tipsy! That electric Hagar! she would flash into my soul blaze after blaze, like the lightning of a dark, tempestuous night, dazzling, blinding, stunning me!”