from my mind all fear of my rivals and determined to take an early
opportunity of offering her my hand and heart.

How impatiently I awaited her return. The days dragged along. I
was restless and unhappy. We did not correspond, so there were no
letters to brighten the gloomy days of waiting.

To a small degree I derived some comfort from frequent calls on
Miss Sherman, who was good enough to tell me of her letters from
her cousin and good-natured enough to permit me to spend most of
the evening in talking about her. I was certainly very much in love,
and as the case with most young men in that condition of mind, the
object of my adoration was always in my thoughts.

All things finally come to an end, and early in July Miss Wilson
returned to Brooklyn. She was to remain but a few days before
leaving for a visit in Connecticut.

In the interim I felt I must speak, and yet now that the opportunity
had arrived, what a mighty proposition it seemed.

For days and days I had been thinking of it, at night I dreamed of
it. It seemed so easy to tell the woman I loved, that I loved her,
and yet when the time had come my courage waned. I let day after
day pass in spite of a resolution each morning that before sleeping
again I would know my fate.

I tried to reason with myself.

I knew that my personality was not objectionable. I had lived an