_31st._—The first mild day of spring. The air from the conservatory enters laden with the breath of flowers. I feel the blood pulsating in my veins with unusual ardor. There is a bouquet of Parma violets by my side, sent by _him_. Their perfume inebriates my senses; an indefinable charm penetrates my whole being. If, after all, he loves me! Oh! hush! foolish heart be still. Such happiness is not for earth. And yet, I think he is not indifferent. Friendship from him is preferable to love from another—yes, it would content me. But then, friends part, to meet again God alone knows _when_. This is terrible; and what is friendship when love intervenes, for another. Oh! that thought is torture. Why, what an ingenious self-tormentor am I. Why search the possible future to embitter the happy reality of the present. If the worst comes I can _die_—no, WE CANNOT DIE, we live; live forever with an eternal passion in the heart, when we make of a mere mortal the “god of our idolatry.” * * * * * _April 15th._—This evening, it being my reception day, and a few intimates having collected in our _salon_, the conversation turned upon love and jealousy. “I cannot,” observed D’Arcy, “understand the simultaneous existence of these two passions in one bosom.” “How,” cried one of the party, “has not jealousy been termed the ‘child of insatiate love?’” “Nay, rather,” rejoined D’Arcy, “has not Tennyson more aptly described this passion as ‘dead love’s harsh heir jealous pride.’ Where true love exists, believe me, there can be no jealousy.” “Ah!” I exclaimed, and I felt the warm blood mount to my temples, “Mr. D’Arcy is right. True love must be based on esteem, and cannot, therefore, live without perfect confidence.” “You have divined me,” said D’Arcy, with that smile of rare sweetness peculiar to him; “jealousy originates in mistrust, and is, therefore, an insult when unfounded.” “But supposing you had cause,” said another of the circle. “Then,” replied he, with an almost stern severity, “I should no longer love.” “Ah! ah! monsieur,” said a pretty little Frenchwoman, “I differ, quite. As for me, I am jealous; as a wolf—a tiger.” A general laugh followed this innocent and truly French sally, from all but D’Arcy, who bowing profoundly, and with an air of inimitable, mock humility, said: “Then, madame, I am most unhappy, for I can never make love to you.” “This is growing too serious,” I said; “let me introduce to you, Mr. D’Arcy, as a poet, and my friend, Miss Mildmay, as a musician second only to Rossini. Ella will sing you a song of their joint composition. It is really charming.” I here transcribe the words, which, with the music, met with great success: THE SPIRIT OF LOVE.