summit of earthly happiness, the end of life—to love? I don't think it is. It may be the extreme of mortal misery, it may be sheer waste of time, and fruitless torture of feeling. If Schiller had said to be loved—he might have come nearer the truth. Is not that another thing, Lucy, to be loved?
"I suppose it may be: but why consider the subject? What is love to you? What do you know about it?"
She crimsoned, half in irritation, half in shame.
"Now, Lucy," she said, " I won't take that from you. It may be well for papa to look on me as a baby: I rather prefer that he should thus view me; but you know and shall learn to acknowledge that I am verging on my nineteenth year."
"No matter if it were your twenty-ninth; we will anticipate no feelings by discussion and conversation: we will not talk about love."
"Indeed, indeed!" said she—all in hurry and heat—"you may think to check and hold me in, as much as you please; but I have talked about it, and heard about it too; and a great deal and lately, and disagreeably and detrimentally: and in a way you wouldn't approve."
And the vexed, triumphant, pretty, naughty
