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practice deception; often an unintentional deception—sometimes an unconscious deception—always a fascinating deception—but not the less deception, though you believe so trustingly in its illusions. What is stranger still, your admirer, while his infatuation lasts, honestly imagines himself to be all that he seems to be to you, who look at him through the idealizing medium of love. And the universe holds no such idealizer as the glamor of this same love. Neither man nor woman is susceptible of an emotion into which the poetical element is so largely infused as love. There is no beautifier in creation so subtle and marvellous in its workings as love. Your lover sees his own image mirrored in your eyes, and is enchanted with the flattering reflection. No wonder; all the harsh lines are softened—the most insignificant features acquire character—the most sombre coloring glows with fervid hues. He may be a dull man, but your presence animates him; he may be coldly taciturn, but, by your side, his silence is eloquent; he may be rough and insensate, but to you he is all gentleness and feeling; he may be proud and self-sufficient, but at your feet he is humble and self-forgetful; he may be prosaic to the last degree, but there is voiceless poetry in his devotion to you. However narrow his nature, it expands at your touch; however frigid his temperament, it grows impassioned beneath your smile; however superficial his emotions, they are intensi-