The conversation with Sophy heightened the illusions of my mind; and the
manner in which she had treated my daydream identified it with facts and
persons and gave it still more the stamp of reality. I walked about as one
in a trance, heedless of the world around and lapped in an elysium of the
fancy.

In this mood I met one morning with Glencoe. He accosted me with his usual
smile, and was proceeding with some general observations, but paused and
fixed on me an inquiring eye.

"What is the matter with you?" said he, "you seem agitated; has anything in
particular happened?"

"Nothing," said I, hesitating; "at least nothing worth communicating to
you."

"Nay, my dear young friend," said he, "whatever is of sufficient importance
to agitate you is worthy of being communicated to me."

"Well; but my thoughts are running on what you would think a frivolous
subject."

"No subject is frivolous that has the power to awaken strong feelings."

"What think you," said I, hesitating, "what think you of love?"

Glencoe almost started at the question. "Do you call that a frivolous
subject?" replied he. "Believe me, there is none fraught with such deep,
such vital interest. If you talk, indeed, of the capricious inclination