compelled to believe I was there still. At another time—some years later—I was assisting at an exceedingly interesting love scene; but the only thing about it I can call to mind distinctly is that, at the most critical moment, somebody suddenly opened the door and said: "Emily, you're wanted," in a sepulchral tone, that gave one the idea the police had come for her. All the tender words she said to me, and all the beautiful things I said to her, are utterly forgotten.
Life, altogether, is but a crumbling ruin, when we turn to look behind: a shattered column here, where a massive portal stood; the broken shaft of a window to mark my lady's bower; and a mouldering heap of blackened stones where the glowing flames once leapt, and, over all, the tinted lichen and the ivy clinging green.
For everything looms pleasant through the softening haze of time. Even the sadness that is past seems sweet. Our boyish days look very merry to us now, all nutting, hoop, and gingerbread. The snubbings and toothaches and the Latin verbs are all forgotten—the Latin verbs especially. And we fancy we were very happy when we were hobbledehoys, and loved; and we wish that we could love again. We never think of the heartaches, or the sleepless nights, or the hot dryness of our throats, when she said she could never be anything to us but a sister—as if any man wanted more sisters!
