purple light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a
single tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the most
trivial circumstance associated with one form was put in the amber of
memory; when he became all eye when one was present, and all memory
when one was gone."

"Emerson never learned that at a university, German or otherwise. He
writes as if it were a common human experience, and yet I know no more
about it than of the sensations of a man who has lost an arm. I
suppose losing one's heart is much the same. As long as a man's limbs
are intact he is scarcely conscious of them, but when one is gone it
troubles him all the time, although it isn't there. Now when Hilland
left me I felt guilty at the ease with which I could forget him in the
library and laboratory. I did not become all memory. I knew he was my
best, my only friend; he is still; but he is not essential to my life.
Clearly, according to Emerson, I am as ignorant as a child of one of
the deepest experiences of life, and very probably had better remain
so, and yet the hour is playing strange tricks with my fancy."

Thus it may be perceived that Alford Graham was peculiarly open on
this deceitful May evening, which promised peace and security, to the
impending stroke of fate. Its harbinger first appeared in the form of
a white Spitz dog, barking vivaciously under the apple-tree, where a
path from a neighboring residence intersected the walk leading from
Mrs. Mayburn's cottage to the street. Evidently some one was playing
with the little creature, and was pretending to be kept at bay by its
belligerent attitude. Suddenly there was a rush and a flutter of white
draperies, and the dog retreated toward Graham, barking with still
greater excitement. Then the young man saw coming up the path with
quick, lithe tread, sudden pauses, and little impetuous dashes at her