heart, but that she should find out that I had any knowledge of such
affairs. It did not then occur to me to be ashamed of the kind of
poetry I had written.

Of course, the reader must know that all of this adoration was in
secret; next to my great love for this young lady was the dread that
in some way she would find it out. I did not know what some men never
find out, that the woman who cannot discern when she is loved has
never lived. It makes me laugh to think how successful I was in
concealing it all; within a short time after our duet all of
the friends of my dear one were referring to me as her "little
sweetheart," or her "little beau," and she laughingly encouraged it.
This did not entirely satisfy me; I wanted to be taken seriously. I
had definitely made up my mind that I should never love another woman,
and that if she deceived me I should do something desperate--the great
difficulty was to think of something sufficiently desperate--and the
heartless jade, how she led me on!

So I hurried home that afternoon, humming snatches of the violin part
of the duet, my heart beating with pleasurable excitement over the
fact that I was going to be near her, to have her attention placed
directly upon me; that I was going to be of service to her, and in a
way in which I could show myself to advantage--this last consideration
has much to do with cheerful service----. The anticipation produced in
me a sensation somewhat between bliss and fear. I rushed through the
gate, took the three steps to the house at one bound, threw open the
door, and was about to hang my cap on its accustomed peg of the hall
rack when I noticed that that particular peg was occupied by a black
derby hat. I stopped suddenly and gazed at this hat as though I had
never seen an object of its description. I was still looking at it in