to him at whiles, wafted on that strange incense, and clothed about in
that mystical lustre of pearl.

Doubtless, she lives in that fabled country still: but Narcissus has
grown sadly wise since then, and he goes on pilgrimage no more.




CHAPTER V


AN IDYLL OF ALICE SUNSHINE, WHICH REALLY BELONGS TO THE LAST CHAPTER

If the Reader has heard enough of the amourettes of the young gentleman
upon whose memoirs I am engaged, let him skip this chapter and pass to
the graver chapters beyond. My one aim is the Reader's pleasure, and I
carry my solicitude so far that if he finds his happiness to lie outside
these pages altogether, has no choice among these various chapters, but
prefers none to any, I am quite content. Such a spirit of
self-abnegation, the Reader must admit, is true love.

Perhaps it was an early unconscious birth-impulse of the true love some
day to be born in his heart, that caused Narcissus to make a confession
to his Miller's Daughter, on one of their pretty decorative evenings,
when they sat together at the fireside, while the scent of the climbing
roses, and the light of the climbing moon, came in at the window.

The immediate effect of the confession was--no wonder--to draw tears.
And how beautiful she looked in tears! Who would dive for pearls when