And in a letter written by her to him, she says: “What if we had never known each other? That would have been very possible, wouldn't it? The world is so large, and there are so many, many people, and the likelihood of any two happening to come together is so very slight, it would have been quite possible for us to have gone through life, and died, without ever having known each other. Think of the many years that we did dwell right here in the same city, without ever even knowing of each other's existence! And yet often, perhaps, in the course of those years, we came very near together. Who can tell but that we may have sat together in the same concert-hall, listening to the same music? We may have passed each other in the street a great many times. We may even have ridden in the same horse-car together, and not have noticed each other. Isn't it strange? But think, if I had not happened to go to my father's shop that afternoon! Or, if you had not happened to go there, too, at just the same time! Why, then we might never have known each other at all! It takes my breath away, to think of it; doesn't it yours? How strange and empty and incomplete our lives would have been? We should have gone through life, without ever really knowing what life meant--without ever realizing the greatness and the richness and the wonder of it. I should never have known what it was to love--for I never could have loved any one but you. Oh, how lonesome I should have been! But you--do you think you might have loved somebody else, and married her? There are so many women; but there is only one you.---- Oh, if I could only feel sure that you would always, always love me, and never get over loving me! Whenever you are away from me, I can't help being afraid that you do not love me any more. I long so impatiently to have you come back and tell me that you do. If you ever really should get over loving me--oh, I--I would rather have you kill me right away.” Thus these young persons pursued their billing and cooing. Thus they played their parts in the oldest of old plays, never for an instant suspecting that the same songs had been sung, the same lines declaimed, the same little scenes enacted, the whole worn threadbare, by myriads of similar personages, ever since the world began; and scarcely giving a thought, either, to the time when, by and by, the curtain would be rung down, and the theater emptied, and the foot-lights put out. So shortsighted, so self-absorbed, is love. The two letters from which I have just quoted, lie before me now. It is not such a great while since they were written--not such a great while since the paper grew hot tinder the writer's hand, and fluttered as the reader's breath fell upon it. But the paper is quite cold now; and already the ink has begun to fade. Yet, to Christine's pages there still clings, singularly enough, the ghost of a faint, sweet smell.