you are a sad fellow!"

I did not like the tone of this; it sounded very much as if it would
have been in the mouth of any one else--"bad fellow."

And she went on to ask me, in a very bantering way, if my stock of
youthful loves was not nearly exhausted; and she cited the episode of
the fair-haired Enrica, as perhaps the most tempting that I could draw
from my experience.

A better man than myself, if he had only a fair share of vanity, would
have been nettled at this; and I replied somewhat tartly, that I had
never professed to write my experiences. These might be more or less
tempting; but certainly if they were of a kind which I have attempted to
portray in the characters of Bella, or of Carry, neither my Aunt Tabithy
nor any one else should have learned such truth from any book of mine.
There are griefs too sacred to be babbled to the world; and there may be
loves which one would forbear to whisper even to a friend.

No, no; imagination has been playing pranks with memory; and if I have
made the feeling real, I am content that the facts should be false.
Feeling, indeed, has a higher truth in it than circumstance. It appeals
to a larger jury for acquittal; it is approved or condemned by a better
judge. And if I can catch this bolder and richer truth of feeling, I
will not mind if the types of it are all fabrications.

If I run over some sweet experience of love, (my Aunt Tabithy brightened
a little,) must I make good the fact that the loved one lives, and
expose her name and qualities to make your sympathy sound? Or shall I
not rather be working upon higher and holier ground, if I take the