"Why, Juliette," he replied, "angels are children, and you are both. You do not know that love is the function of the noblest faculties of the mind, and that we must take care of those faculties as of the apple of one's eye. You do not know, little girl, what your own heart is. Dear, sensitive, confiding creature that you are, you believe that it is an inexhaustible fountain of love; but the sun itself is not eternal. You do not know that the heart becomes tired like the body, and that it must be treated with the same care. Trust to me, Juliette; let me keep the sacred fire alight in your heart. It is my interest to preserve your love, to prevent you from squandering it too rapidly. All women are like you; they are in such a hurry to love that they suddenly cease to love, and do not know why." "Bad boy," I said, "are these the things you said to me in the evenings on the mountain? Did you urge me not to love you too much? did you think that I was capable of becoming weary of loving you?" "No, my angel," Leoni replied, kissing my hands, "nor do I think it now. But listen to my experience: external things exert upon our most secret feelings an influence against which the strongest contend in vain. In our valley, surrounded by pure air, by natural perfumes and melodies, we might well be and were certain to be all love, all poesy, all enthusiasm: but remember that, even while we were there, I was sparing of that enthusiasm, which is so easy to lose, so impossible to find again when it is lost; remember our rainy days, when I was more or less harsh with you in forcing you to keep your mind occupied, in order to save you from reflection and the melancholy which is its inevitable consequence. Be sure that too frequent examination of oneself and others is the most dangerous of occupations. We must shake off the selfish craving which impels us to be forever searching our hearts and the hearts of those who love us, like a foolish husbandman who exhausts the soil by dint of calling on it to produce beyond its capacity. We must know how to be unemotional and frivolous at times; such periods of distraction are dangerous only to weak and indolent hearts. An ardent heart ought to seek them in order not to consume itself; it is always rich enough. A word, a glance, is sufficient to send a thrill through it in the midst of the eddying whirl which carries it away, and to bring it back more ardent and more loving to the consciousness of its passion. Here, you see, we must have excitement and variety; these great palaces are beautiful, but they are melancholy. The sea moss clings to their feet, and the limpid water in which they are reflected is often laden with vapors which fall in tears. This magnificence is severe, and these marks of nobility which please you are simply a long succession of epitaphs and tombs which we must decorate with flowers. We must fill with living beings this echoing mansion, where your footsteps would