were friends; he talked to me much of his plans in life,--of the future
that lay before him. What an ambitious spirit burned within him!--a
godlike ambition I thought it then. And how my weak, womanish heart
thrilled with sympathy to his! With what pride I listened to his words!
with what fervor I joined in his longings!

There came a time when I trembled before him. I could no longer walk
calmly arm-in-arm with him under the linden-trees, hearkening joyfully.
I dared not lift my eyes to his face; I turned pale with suppressed
feeling, if he but spoke my name--Juanita--or took my hand in his for
friendly greeting. What a hand it was!--so white, and soft, and
shapely, yet so powerful! It was the right hand for him,--a fair and
delicate seeming, a cruel, hidden strength. When he spoke of the future
my heart cried out against it; it was intolerable to me. In its bright
triumphs I could have no part; thereto I could follow him only with my
love and tears. The present alone was mine, and to that I passionately
clung. For I never dreamed, you see, that he could love me.

My manner toward him changed; I was fitful and capricious. I dreaded,
above all things, that he should suspect my feelings. Sometimes I met
him coldly; sometimes I received his confidences with an indifferent
and weary air. This could not last.

One night--it was a little time before he left us--he begged me to walk
with him once more under the lindens. I made many excuses, but he
overruled them all. We left the brilliantly-lighted rooms and stood
beneath the solemn shadow of the trees. It was a warm, soft night; the
harvest moon shone down upon us; a south wind moaned among the
branches. We walked silently on till we reached a rustic seat, formed
of gnarled boughs fantastically bound together; here he made me sit