"Yes, there is one thing that lasts, that is friendship," he said.
"Friendship!" exclaimed the Damsel; "but that is not made up of caresses. It does not make the heart beat."
"We were not talking of beating hearts," said the Sage, sententiously.
"Very well. Good-bye, then, Sage." laughed the Damsel. "You must think of more stories for me before I come again."
And, continuing to caress the falcon, she walked away, stately and fair, into the setting sun.
When she had gone the Sage wondered why there was no twilight that evening, and why it had suddenly become night.
Most men prefer to possess something that the other men want.
t would be a peaceful world if we could only realize that the fever of love is like other fevers. It comes to a crisis, and the patient either dies or is cured. It cannot last at the same point forever.
he Damsel came back again next day. She had remarked, the day she spent with him in the rain, that the Sage was not so old or so uncomely as she had at first supposed. "If he were to shave off his beard and wear a velvet doublet, he would look as well as many a cavalier of the Court," she mused. And she called out before she reached the door:
"Sage, I have come back because I want to ask you just another question. Will you not come out and sit in the sun while you answer?"
So the Sage advanced in a recalcitrant
manner, but he would not sit down beside her.
Then the Damsel began:
"A woman once possessed a ball of silk. It was of so fine and rare a kind that, although of many thousand yards, it took up no space, and she unwound it daily for her pleasure without any appreciable difference in the size of the ball. At last she suddenly fancied she perceived some alteration. It came upon her as a shock, but still she continued to use the silk with the casual idea that a thing she had employed so long
must
go on forever. Then again, in about a week, there came another shock. The ball was certainly smaller, and felt cold and hard and firm. The thought came to her, 'What
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