one knew—except the major—what a struggle he had to wake that shadowy love into real sorrow. The major was living on a sentiment that had long ceased to cause him a pang. He fancied he had kept single for the sake of Laura, who had been his betrothed when he was a boy, Laura who had died in the blossom of her days. In truth, when the stress and rush of his well-filled life was over, he had settled down to a comfortable old bachelorhood, and for a grievance waked the memory of the almost-forgotten girl, and would tell the story of his life's devotion to any sympathetic ear bent his way.
It was only when he had thorough bodily comfort that his loss affected him most. If he was cold, hungry, or tired, he asked for food, fire, and rest, not for poor Laura.
'So I sat by the side of that fair creature,' the major continued, 'without a thought of sentiment, though the moonlight fell soft upon her pale hair, and showed her white throat. From some far-off room the melody of a slow waltz wafted to our ears, and from the woods outside we heard the singing of a nightingale, just audible on the perfumed night air.
