"No, I shall not drink and be cured! Better a thousand times the
thoughts that lead to madness than this colorless existence without
love. I do not wish to recover from so sweet a malady."

I took the bottle in my hand and unstopped it. The stopper formed a
curious little cup, round the rim of which was written, _Drink of
me_. I poured some of the liquid out into the cup; it was pale yellow
in color, and had a faint sickly smell as of honeysuckles. Then I poured
it back again and replaced the bottle in its niche.

_Drink and be cured_. No, not yet. Some day, perhaps, my trouble
increasing till it might no longer be borne, would drive me to seek such
dreary comfort as this cure-all bottle contained. To love without hope
was sad enough, but to be without love was even sadder.

I had grown calm now: the knowledge that I had it in my power to escape
at once and for eyer from that rage of desire, had served to sober my
mind, and at last I began to reason about the matter. The nature of my
secret feelings could never be suspected, and in the unsubstantial realm
of the imagination it would still be in my power to hide myself with my
love, and revel in all supreme delight. Would not that be better than
this cure--this calm contentment held out to me? And in time also my
feelings would lose their present intensity, which often made them an
agony, and would come at last to exist only as a gentle rapture stirring
in my heart when I clasped my darling to my bosom and pressed her sweet
lips with mine. Ah, no! that was a vain dream, I could not be deceived
by it; for who can say to the demon of passion in him, thus far shalt
thou go and no further?

Perplexed in mind and unable to decide which thing was best, my troubled