long dwelt in shadow and pines for the sun. Love, starving on memories, begs for one taste Of sweet hope, ere the remnant of youth goes to waste. 

 Mabel to Maurice. 

 You write like a man who sees self as his goal. You speak of your woes—yet my travail of soul Seems mere sentiment to you. Maurice, pause and think Of the black, bitter potion life gave me to drink When I dreamed of love's nectar. Too fresh is the taste Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste To reach out for the cup that is proffered anew. A certain respect to my sorrows is due. I am weary of love as men know it. The calm Of a sweet, tranquil friendship would act like a balm On the wounds of my heart; that platonic regard, Which we read of in books, or hear sung by the bard, But so seldom can find when we want it. I thought, For a time, you had conquered mere self, and had brought Such a friendship to comfort and rest me. But no, That dream, like full many another, must go. The love that is based on attraction of sex Is a love that has brought me but sorrow. Why vex My poor soul with the same thing again? If you love With a higher emotion, you know how to prove And sustain the assertion by conduct. Maurice, Love must rise above passion, to infinite peace And serenity, ere it is love, to my mind. For the women of earth, in the ranks of mankind There are too many lovers and not enough friends. 'Tis the friend who protects, 'tis the lover who rends. He who can be a friend while he would be a lover Is the rarest and greatest of souls to discover. Have I found, dear Maurice, such a treasure in you? If not, I must say with this letter—adieu. 

 As he finished the letter there seemed but one phrase To the heart of the reader. It shone on his gaze Bright with promise and hope.  "Too fresh is the taste Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste To reach out for the cup that is offered anew." "In such haste."  Ah, how hope into certainty grew As he read and re-read that one sentence.  "Let fate Take the whole thing in charge, I can wait—I can wait. I have lived through the night; though the dawn may be gray And belated, it heralds the coming of day." So he talked with himself, and grew happy at last. The five hopeless years of his sorrow were cast Like a nightmare behind him. He walked once again With a joy in his personal life, among men. There seemed to be always a smile on his lip, For he felt like a man on the deck of a ship Who has sailed through strange seas with a mutinous crew, And now in the distance sights land just in view. 

 The house at Bay Bend was re-opened. Once 

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