bitterness that Angelina no longer runs to the gate to meet him, all smiles and blushes; and, when he has a cough now, she doesn't begin to cry, and, putting her arms round his neck, say that she cannot live without him. The most she will probably do is to suggest a lozenge, and even that in a tone implying that it is the noise more than anything else she is anxious to get rid of.
Poor little Angelina, too, sheds silent tears, for Edwin has given up carrying her old handkerchief in the inside pocket of his waistcoat.
Both are astonished at the falling off in the other one, but neither sees their own change. If they did, they would not suffer as they do. They would look for the cause in the right quarter—in the littleness of poor human nature—join hands over their common failing, and start building their house anew on a more earthly and enduring foundation. But we are so blind to our own shortcomings, so wide awake to those of others. Everything that happens to us is always the other person's fault. Angelina would have gone on loving Edwin for ever and ever and ever, if only Edwin had not grown so strange and different. Edwin would have adored Angelina through eternity, if Angelina had only remained the same as when he first adored her.
It is a cheerless hour for you both, when the lamp of love has gone out, and the fire of affection is not yet
