But there are Darbys and Joans of real flesh and blood to be met with—God bless them, and send more for our example—wholesome living men and women, brave, struggling souls with commonsense. Ah, yes! they have quarrelled: had their dark hours of bitterness, of hate, when he wished to heaven he had never met her, and told her so. How could he have guessed those sweet lips could utter such cruel words; the: tender eyes, he loved to kiss, flash wit scorn and anger? And she, had she known what lay behind; those days when he knelt before her, swore that his only dream was to save her from all pai Passion lies dead; it is a flame that burns out quickly. The most beautiful face in the world grows indifferent to us when we have sat opposite it every morning at breakfast, every avenin, sapper, for a brief year or two. Passion is the seed. Love grows from it a tender sapling, beautiful to look. upon, but wondrous frail, easily broken, easily trampled on during those: first: years of wedded life. Only by much nursing, by long caring-for, watered with tears, shall it grow into a. sturdy tree defiant of the winds, neath which Dadby and Joan shall itered in old aye. They had commonsense, brave hearts. Darby had expected too much Darby had not made allowance for human nature which he ought to have done, seeing how much he had of it knows he did not it. nasty temper; Joan will try, Darby will try. They kiss again with tests. It is a workaday world; Darby and Joan will take it as i will do their best. A little kindness, a little clasping of the hands before night comes.
Youth deems it heresy, but sometimes wonder if the English-speaking way. is quite the I discussed the subject once with an old French lady. The English reader forms his idea of French life from the French novel; it leads to mistaken notions. There are French Darbys, French Joans, many thousands of them. "Believe me," said my old Freveh friend, "your English way is wrong; our way is not perfect, but the better I am sure. You leave it entirely to the young people. What do they know of life, of themselves, even. He falls in love with a pretty face. Sho—he danced so well! He was so agrocablo that day of the pic-nie! If marriage wore only for a month or 80; could be ended without harm when the passion was burnt out. Ab, yes! then perhaps you would be right. 'i loved at eighteen, madly—nearly broke my heart. I meet him occasionally now. My dear"—her hair was silvery white, and, I was only thirty-five; she always called mo "my door"; it is pleasant at thirty-five to be talked to asa child, He was a perfect brate, handsome he had been, yes, but all that was changed. Ho was as stupid as an ox. I never see his poor frightened-looking wife without shuddering, thinking of what I have escaped. They told me all that, but I looked: only at his face, and did not believe them. They forced me into marriage with the kindest man that ever lived. I did not love him tt I loved him for thirty years; was better?"
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.