"But he is poor. And
anyhow she is not in Love with him."
"Leila is not one to care about Love," said Jane. "That
makes it eazier."
"But whom?" I said. "Whom, Jane?"
We thought and thought, but of course it was hard, for we
knew none of those who filled my sister's life, or sent her
flours and so on.
At last I said:
"There must be a way, Jane. _There must be_. And if not, I
shall make one. For I am desparate. The mere thought of going
back to school, when I am as old as at present and engaged also,
is madening."
But Jane held out a warning hand.
"Go slow, dearie," she said, in a solemn tone. "Do nothing
rash. Remember this, that she is your sister, and should be
hapily married if at all. Also she needs one with a strong hand
to control her. And such are not easy to find. You must not ruin
her Life."
Considering the fatal truth of that, is it any wonder that,
on contemplateing the events that folowed, I am ready to cry,
with the great poet Hood: 1835-1874: whose numerous works we
studied during the spring term:
_Alas, I have walked through life_
_To heedless where I trod_;
_Nay, helping to trampel my fellow worm_,
_And fill the burial sod_.
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