for in its last analysis, it is the wish to give pleasure to others, in
the same degree, as the envied fortunately may. Nothing is happiness
which is not shared by at least one other, and nothing is truly sorrow
unless it is borne absolutely alone.

[Sidenote: Love]

Love! The delight and the torment of the world! The despair of
philosophers and sages, the rapture of poets, the confusion of cynics,
and the warrior's defeat!

Love! The bread and the wine of life, the hunger and the thirst, the
hurt and the healing, the only wound which is cured by another! The
guest who comes like a thief in the night! The eternal question which is
its own answer, the thing which has no beginning and no end!

The very blindness of it is divine, for it sees no imperfections, takes
no reck of faults, and concerns itself only with the hidden beauty of
the soul.

It is unselfishness--yet it tolerates no rival and demands all for
itself. It is belief--and yet it doubts. It is hope and it is also
misgiving. It is trust and distrust, the strongest temptation and the
power to withstand it; woman's need and man's dream. It is his enemy and
his best friend, her weakness and her strength; the roses and the
thorns.

Woman's love affairs begin in her infancy, with some childish play at
sweethearts, and a cavalier in dresses for her hero. It may be a matter
of affinity in later years, or, as the more prosaic Buckle suggests,