things kept coming and going. I had studied tolerably well--at least my
uncle showed himself pleased with the progress I had made and was making.
I know even yet a good deal more than would be required for one of these
modern degrees feminine. I had besides read more of the older literature
of my country than any one I have met except my uncle. I had also this
advantage over most students, that my knowledge was gained without the
slightest prick of the spur of emulation--purely in following the same
delight in myself that shone radiant in the eyes of my uncle as he read
with me. I had this advantage also over many, that, perhaps from
impression of the higher mind, I saw and learned a thing not merely as a
fact whose glory lay in the mystery of its undeveloped harmonics, but as
the harbinger of an unknown advent. For as long as I can remember, my
heart was given to expectation, was tuned to long waiting. I constantly
felt--felt without thinking--that something was coming. I feel it now.
Were I young I dared not say so. How could I, compassed about with so
great a cloud of witnesses to the common-place! Do I not see their
superior smile, as, with voices sweetly acidulous, they quote in reply--

"Love is well on the way;
He'll be here to-day,
Or, at latest, the end of the week;
Too soon you will find him,
And the sorrow behind him
You will not go out to seek!"

Would they not tell me that such expectation was but the shadow of the
cloud called love, hanging no bigger than a man's hand on the far
horizon, but fraught with storm for mind and soul, which, when it
withdrew, would carry with it the glow and the glory and the hope of
life; being at best but the mirage of an unattainable paradise, therefore