Bernard was very much _en evidence_ those days. He liked you a great
deal, because in school-girl parlance you were my "chum." You
say,--thanks, no tea, it reminds me that I'm an old maid; you say you
know what happiness means--maybe, but I don't think any living soul
could experience the joy I felt in those days; it was absolutely painful
at times.
Byron and his counterparts are ever dear to the womanly heart, whether
young or old. Such a man was he, gloomy, misanthropical, tired of the
world, with a few dozen broken love-affairs among his varied
experiences. Of course, I worshipped him secretly, what romantic, silly
girl of my age, would not, being thrown in such constant contact with
him.
One day he folded me tightly in his arms, and said:
"Little girl, I have nothing to give you in exchange for that priceless
love of yours but a heart that has already been at another's feet, and a
wrecked life, but may I ask for it?"
"It is already yours," I answered. I'll draw the veil over the scene
which followed; you know, you've "been there."
Then began some of the happiest hours that ever the jolly old sun beamed
upon, or the love-sick moon clothed in her rays of silver. Deceived me?
No, no. He admitted that the old love for Blanche was still in his
heart, but that he had lost all faith and respect for her, and could
nevermore be other than a friend.
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