What is LOVE ?

Romantic Ideas

1. Go for a romantic date: A romantic date can be anywhere, where both of you can spend some private moments with each other amidst peace and serenity. Try and plan for a place that can give you a good ambiance. It can be your first meeting place or a place where both of you share endless memories. Be sure to take ample time with you, while you go for a romantic date.
 
2. A candle-lit dinner: A candle-lit dinner can intensify the passion and romance in your relation. Try playing soft music in the background. It will surely form a stage for a passionate evening. Candle-lit dinners often become the platform for confessions on love. Yes, we are serious. Declare your love for him/her. Share beautiful memories with each other. This will give a strong base to your relation.
 
3. Bring flowers for him/her: Flowers in their own way can brighten up your love life. A bunch of red roses has always received a special distinction in love. Say you do with a beautiful bouquet of 100 roses. It will wonderfully give your relation an interesting twist. If you want to woo your boyfriend, flowers will definitely help you in that. They have the power to say everything that even words fail to describe. Take the help of beautiful calla lilies, marigolds, evergreen roses, and beautiful bluebells for this purpose.
 
4. Cook a surprise meal for him/her: Cooking is a sweet gesture. It shows how much you care for him/her. Go ahead and cook a favorite meal of him/her. Do not worry even if you are not expert in this. Your sweet intention is what that really counts in this. To score some more points, you can also sort out some pages of cookery book to find a good recipe.
 
5. Plan a romantic vacation: A romantic vacation helps both of you to spend some great moments with each other. In our busy schedule, we often do not get enough time for each other. A romantic vacation solves this problem. It becomes very necessary to go for regular breaks to relieve our stresses to lead a blissful life. There are numerous places where both of you can plan for a romantic gateway. Beaches, mountains, and forests make up for beautiful romantic vacations.
 
6. Go for moonlight walks: A moonlight walk near a beach, park, or a lake will rekindle the fire of romance and passion. Your relation is sure to take an interesting turn.
 
7. Create a romantic bedroom: Decorate your bedroom with a beautiful romantic theme. Use soft and subtle lights to impart the right ambiance. Candles can also be used for that. Soft fabrics with romantic prints will add magic to the whole atmosphere. Flowers can help you in great deal. Use fresh flowers all over to entice your spirits. Lastly, beautiful wall hangings will complete your job of creating a romantic bedroom that will further create a sweet backdrop for a romantic encounter.
 
8. A romantic movie: Romantic movie will lift your spirits and for sure give you some strong hints to spice up your relation. You can go ahead and watch some classic romantic movies that are known for their fabulous story. Try getting the DVD at home so that both of you can watch the movie in complete solace.
 
9. Surprise each other with gifts: Gifts can do it for you. Buy some sweet gifts for each other to express your love and care. Surprise gifts have always lent an important hand to beautiful love relationships. Try choosing gifts according to each other choices and preferences. You know your man/woman better. Try recalling those instances when he/she has desired for a product. That product would be an awesome surprise for him/her.
 
10. Write poem for him/her: A beautiful love poem can become a beautiful portray of your feelings. Words have always got a huge success in making timeless impressions on each other. Pen down your feelings in the form of a poem and present it to your beloved. Believe us; he/she would be more than happy. If you are not good at writing, you can also take the help of beautiful poems written by great poets like Shakespeare, John Keats, Robert Burns, and Emily Dickinson. They are the pioneers in world of poems.

The Tryst - Algernon Blackwood (1869-1951)

As he got out of the train at the little wayside station he remembered the conversation as if it had been yesterday, instead of fifteen years ago and his heart went thumping against his ribs so violently that he almost heard it. The original thrill came over him again with all its infinite yearning. He felt it as he had felt it then not with that tragic lessening the interval had brought to each repetition of its memory. Here, in the familar scenery of its birth, he realised with mingled pain and wonder that the subsequent years had not destroyed, but only dimmed it. The forgotten rapture flamed back with all the fierce beauty of its genesis, desire at white heat. And the shock of the abrupt discovery shattered time. Fifteen years became a negligible moment ; the crowded experiences that had intervened seemed but a dream. The farewell scene, the conversation on the steamer's deck, were clear as of the day before. He saw the hand holding her big hat that fluttered in the wind, saw the flowers on the dress where the long coat was blown open a moment, recalled the face of a hurrying steward who had jostled them; he even heard the voices his own and hers:

"Yes," she said simply ; "I promise you. You have my word. I'll wait "

"Till I come back to find you," he interrupted.

Steadfastly she repeated his actual words, then added:

"Here; at home that is."

"I'll come to the garden gate as usual," he told her, trying to smile. "I'll knock. You'll open the gate as usual and come out to me."

These words, too, she attempted to repeat, but her voice failed, her eyes filled suddenly with tears; she looked into his face and nodded. It was just then that her little hand went up to hold the hat on he saw the very gesture still. He remembered that he was vehemently tempted to tear his ticket up there and then, to go ashore with her, to stay in England, to brave all opposition when the siren roared its third horrible warning . . . and the ship put out to sea.

Fifteen years, thick with various incident, had passed between them since that moment. His life had risen, fallen, crashed, then risen again. He had come back at last, fortune won by a lucky coup at thirty-five; had come back to find her, come back, above all, to keep his word. Once every three months they had exchanged the brief letter agreed upon : "I am well ; I am waiting; I am happy; I am unmarried. Yours ." For his youthful wisdom had insisted that no "man" had the right to keep "any woman" too long waiting; and she, thinking that letter brave and splendid, had insisted likewise that he was free if freedom called him. They had laughed over this last phrase in their agreement. They put five years as the possible limit of separation. By then he would have won success, and obstinate parents would have nothing more to say.

But when the five years ended he was "on his uppers" in a western mining town, and with the end of ten in sight those uppers, though changed, were little better, apparently, than patched and mended. And it was just then, too, that the change which had been stealing over him betrayed itself. He realised it abruptly, a sense of shame and horror in him. The discovery was made unconsciously--it disclosed itself. He was reading her letter as a labourer on a Californian fruit farm: "Funny she doesn't marry some one else!" he heard himself say. The words were out before he knew it, and certainly before he could suppress them. They just slipped out, startling him into the truth; and he knew instantly that the thought was fathered in him by a hidden wish. . . . He was older. He had lived. It was a memory he loved.

Despising himself in a contradictory fashion both vaguely and fiercely he yet held true to his boyhood's promise. He did not write and offer to release her, as he knew they did in stories. He persuaded himself that he meant to keep his word. There was this fine, stupid, selfish obstinacy in his character. In any case, she would misunderstand and think he wanted to set free himself. "Besides I'm still awfully fond of her," he asserted. And it was true; only the love, it seemed, had gone its way. Not that another woman took it; he kept himself clean, held firm as steel. The love, apparently, just faded of its own accord; her image dimmed, her letters ceased to thrill, then ceased to interest him.

Subsequent reflection made him realise other details about himself. In the interval he had suffered hardships, had learned the uncertainty of life that depends for its continuance on a little food, but that food often hard to come by, and had seen so many others go under that he held it more cheaply than of old. The wandering instinct, too, had caught him, slowly killing the domestic impulse; he lost his desire for a settled place of abode, the desire for children of his own, lost the desire to marry at all. Also he reminded himself with a smile he had lost other things: the expression of youth she was accustomed to and held always in her thoughts of him, two fingers of one hand, his hair! He wore glasses, too. The gentlemen-adventurers of life get scarred in those wild places where he lived. He saw himself a rather battered specimen well on the way to middle age.

There was confusion in his mind, however, and in his heart: a struggling complex of emotions that made it difficult to know exactly what he did feel. The dominant clue concealed itself. Feelings shifted. A single, clear determinant did not offer. He was an honest fellow. "I can't quite make it out," he said. "What is it I really feel? And why?" His motive seemed confused. To keep the flame alight for ten long buffeting years was no small achievement; better men had succumbed in half the time. Yet something in him still held fast to the girl as with a band of steel that would not let her go entirely. Occasionally there came strong reversions, when he ached with longing, yearning, hope; when he loved her again; remembered passionately each detail of the far-off courtship days in the forbidden rectory garden beyond the small, white garden gate. Or was it merely the image and the memory he loved "again"? He hardly knew himself. He could not tell. That "again" puzzled him. It was the wrong word surely. . . . He still wrote the promised letter, however; it was so easy; those short sentences could not betray the dead or dying fires. One day, besides, he would return and claim her. He meant to keep his word.

And he had kept it. Here he was, this calm September afternoon, within three miles of the village where he first had kissed her, where the marvel of first love had come to both; three short miles between him and the little white garden gate of which at this very moment she was intently thinking, and behind which some fifty minutes later she would be standing, waiting for him. . . .

He had purposely left the train at an earlier station; he would walk over in the dusk, climb the familiar steps, knock at the white gate in the wall as of old, utter the promised words, "I have come back to find you," enter, and keep his word. He had written from Mexico a week before he sailed; he had made careful, even accurate calculations: "In the dusk, on the sixteenth of September, I shall come and knock," he added to the usual sentences. The knowledge of his coming, therefore, had been in her possession seven days. Just before sailing, moreover, he had heard from her though not in answer, naturally. She was well; she was happy; she was unmarried; she was waiting.

And now, as by some magical process of restoration possible to deep hearts only, perhaps, though even by them quite inexplicable the state of first love had blazed up again in him. In all its radiant beauty it lit his heart, burned unextinguished in his soul, set body and mind on fire. The years had merely veiled it. It burst upon him, captured, overwhelmed him with the suddenness of a dream. He stepped from the train. He met it in the face. It took him prisoner. The familiar trees and hedges, the unchanged countryside, the "field-smells known in infancy," all these, with something subtly added to them, rolled back the passion of his youth upon him in a flood. No longer was he bound upon what he deemed, perhaps, an act of honourable duty; it was love that drove him, as it drove him fifteen years before. And it drove him with the accumulated passion of desire long forcibly repressed; almost as if, out of some fancied notion of fairness to the girl, he had deliberately, yet still unconsciously, said "No" to it; that she had not faded, but that he had decided, "I must forget her." That sentence: "Why doesn't she marry some one else?" had not betrayed change in himself. It surprised another motive: "It's not fair to her!"

His mind worked with a curious rapidity, but worked within one circle only. The stress of sudden emotion was extraordinary. He remembered a thousand things--yet, chief among them, those occasional reversions when he had felt he "loved her again." Had he not, after all, deceived himself? Had she ever really "faded" at all? Had he not felt he ought to let her fade release her that way? And the change in himself? That sentence on the Californian fruit-farm--what did they mean? Which had been true, the fading or the love?

The confusion in his mind was hopeless, but, as a matter of fact, he did not think at all: he only felt. The momentum, besides, was irresistible, and before the shattering onset of the sweet revival he did not stop to analyse the strange result. He knew certain things, and cared to know no others: that his heart was leaping, his blood running with the heat of twenty, that joy recaptured him, that he must see, hear, touch her, hold her in his arms and marry her. For the fifteen years had crumbled to a little thing, and at thirty-five he felt himself but twenty, rapturously, deliciously in love.

He went quickly, eagerly down the little street to the inn, still feeling only, not thinking anything. The vehement uprush of the old emotion made reflection of any kind impossible. He gave no further thought to those long years "out there," when her name, her letters, the very image of her in his mind, had found him, if not cold, at least without keen response. All that was forgotten as though it had not been. The steadfast thing in him, this strong holding to a promise which had never wilted, ousted the recollection of fading and decay that, whatever caused them, certainly had existed. And this steadfast thing now took command. This enduring quality in his character led him. It was only towards the end of the hurried tea he first received the singular impression vague, indeed, but undeniably persistent the strange impression that he was being led.

Yet, though aware of this, he did not pause to argue or reflect. The emotional displacement in him, of course, had been more than considerable: there had been upheaval, a change whose abruptness- was even dislocating, fundamental in a sense he could not estimate shock. Yet he took no count of anything but the one mastering desire to get to her as soon as possible, knock at the small, white garden gate, hear her answering voice, see the low wooden door swing open take her. There was joy and glory in his heart, and a yearning sweet delight. At this very moment she was expecting him. And he had come.

Behind these positive emotions, however, there lay concealed all the time others that were of a negative character. Consciously, he was not aware of them, but they were there; they revealed their presence in various little ways that puzzled him. He recognised them absent-mindedly, as it were; did not analyse or investigate them. For, through the confusion upon his faculties, rose also a certain hint of insecurity that betrayed itself by a slight hesitancy or miscalculation in one or two unimportant actions. There was a touch of melancholy, too, a sense of something lost. It lay, perhaps, in that tinge of sadness which accompanies the twilight of an autumn day, when a gentler, mournful beauty veils a greater beauty that is past. Some trick of memory connected it with a scene of early boyhood, when, meaning to see the sunrise, he overslept, and, by a brief half-hour, was just too late. He noted it merely, then passed on; he did not understand it; he hurried all the more, this hurry the only sign that it was noted. "I must be quick," flashed up across his strongly positive emotions.

And, due to this hurry, possibly, were the slight miscalculations that he made. They were very trivial. He rang for sugar, though the bowl stood just before his eyes, yet when the girl came in he forgot completely what he rang for and inquired instead about the evening trains to London. And, when the time-table was laid before him, he examined it without intelligence, then looked up suddenly into the maid's face with a question about flowers. Were there flowers to be had in the village anywhere? What kind of flowers? "Oh, a bouquet or a" he hesitated, searching for a word that tried to present itself, yet was not the word he wanted to make use of "or a wreath of some sort?" he finished. He took the very word he did not want to take. In several things he did and said, this hesitancy and miscalculation betrayed themselves such trivial things, yet significant in an elusive way that he disliked. There was sadness, insecurity somewhere in them. And he resented them, aware of their existence only because they qualified his joy. There was a whispered "No" floating somewhere in the dusk. Almost he felt disquiet. He hurried, more and more eager to be off upon his journey--the final part of it.

Contd ...

The Tryst - Algernon Blackwood (1869-1951)

Contd ...

Moreover, there were other signs of an odd miscalculation--dislocation, perhaps, properly speaking--in him. Though the inn was familiar from his boyhood days, kept by the same old couple, too, he volunteered no information about himself, nor asked a single question about the village he was bound for. He did not even inquire if the rector--her father--still were living. And when he left he entirely neglected the gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece of plush, dusty pampas-grass in waterless vases on either side. It did not matter, apparently, whether he looked well or ill, tidy or untidy. He forgot that when his cap was off the absence of thick, accustomed hair must alter him considerably, forgot also that two fingers were missing from one hand, the right hand, the hand that she would presently clasp. Nor did it occur to him that he wore glasses, which must change his expression and add to the appearance of the years he bore. None of these obvious and natural things seemed to come into his thoughts at all. He was in a hurry to be off. He did not think. But, though his mind may not have noted these slight betrayals with actual sentences, his attitude, nevertheless, expressed them. This was, it seemed, the feeling in him: "What could such details matter to her now? Why, indeed, should he give to them a single thought? It was himself she loved and waited for, not separate items of his external, physical image." As well think of the fact that she, too, must have altered outwardly. It never once occurred to him. Such details were of Today. . . . He was only impatient to come to her quickly, very quickly, instantly, if possible. He hurried.

There was a flood of boyhood's joy in him. He paid for his tea, giving a tip that was twice the price of the meal, and set out gaily and impetuously along the winding lane. Charged to the brim with a sweet picture of a small, white garden gate, the loved face close behind it, he went forward at a headlong pace, singing "Nancy Lee" as he used to sing it fifteen years before.

With action, then, the negative sensations hid themselves, obliterated by the positive ones that took command. The former, however, merely lay concealed; they waited. Thus, perhaps, does vital emotion, overlong restrained, denied, indeed, of its blossoming altogether, take revenge. Repressed elements in his psychic life asserted themselves, selecting, as though naturally, a dramatic form.

The dusk fell rapidly, mist rose in floating strips along the meadows by the stream; the old, familiar details beckoned him forwards, then drove him from behind as he went swiftly past them. He recognised others rising through the thickening air beyond; they nodded, peered, and whispered; sometimes they almost sang. And each added to his inner happiness; each brought its sweet and precious contribution, and built it into the reconstructed picture of the earlier, long- forgotten rapture. It was an enticing and enchanted journey that he made, something impossibly blissful in it, something, too, that seemed curiously inevitable. For the scenery had not altered all these years, the details of the country were unchanged, everything he saw was rich with dear and precious association, increasing the momentum of the tide that carried him along. Yonder was the stile over whose broken step he had helped her yesterday, and there the slippery plank across the stream where she looked above her shoulder to ask for his support; he saw the very bramble bushes where she scratched her hand, a-blackberrying, the day before . . . and, finally, the weather-stained signpost, "To the Rectory." It pointed to the path through the dangerous field where Farmer Sparrow's bull provided such a sweet excuse for holding, leading protecting her. From the entire landscape rose a steam of recent memory, each incident alive, each little detail brimmed with its cargo of fond association.

He read the rough black lettering on the crooked arm it was rather faded, but he knew it too well to miss a single letter and hurried forward along the muddy track; he looked about him for a sign of Farmer Sparrow's bull; he even felt in the misty air for the little hand that he might take and lead her into safety. The thought of her drew him on with such irresistible anticipation that it seemed as if the cumulative drive of vanished and unsated years evoked the tangible phantom almost. He actually felt it, soft and warm and clinging in his own, that was no longer incomplete and mutilated.

Yet it was not he who led and guided now, but, more and more, he who was being led. The hint had first betrayed its presence at the inn; it now openly declared itself. It had crossed the frontier into a positive sensation. Its growth, swiftly increasing all this time, had accomplished itself; he had ignored, somehow, both its genesis and quick development; the result he plainly recognised. She was expecting him, indeed, but it was more than expectation; there was calling in it she summoned him. Her thought and longing reached him along that old, invisible track love builds so easily between true, faithful hearts. All the forces of her being, her very voice, came towards him through the deepening autumn twilight. He had not noticed the curious physical restoration in his hand, but he was vividly aware of this more magical alteration that she led and guided him, drawing him ever more swiftly towards the little, white garden gate where she stood at this very moment, waiting. Her sweet strength compelled him; there was this new touch of something irresistible about the familiar journey, where formerly had been delicious yielding only, shy, tentative advance. He realised it inevitable.

His footsteps hurried, faster and ever faster; so deep was the allurement in his blood, he almost ran. He reached the narrow, winding lane, and raced along it. He knew each bend, each angle of the holly hedge, each separate incident of ditch and stone. He could have plunged blindfold down it at top speed. The familiar perfumes rushed at him dead leaves and mossy earth and ferns and dock leaves, bringing the bewildering currents of strong emotion in him all together as in a rising wave. He saw, then, the crumbling wall, the cedars topping it with spreading branches, the chimneys of the rectory. On his right bulked the outline of the old, grey church; the twisted, ancient yews, the company of gravestones, upright and leaning, dotting the ground like listening figures. But he looked at none of these. For, on his left, he already saw the five rough steps of stone that led from the lane towards a small, white garden gate. That gate at last shone before him, rising through the misty air. He reached it.

He stopped dead a moment. His heart, it seemed, stopped too, then took to violent hammering in his brain. There was a roaring in his mind, and yet a marvellous silence just behind it. Then the roar of emotion died away. There was utter stillness. This stillness, silence, was all about him. The world seemed preternaturally quiet.

But the pause was too brief to measure. For the tide of emotion had receded only to come on again with redoubled power. He turned, leaped forward, clambered impetuously up the rough stone steps, and flung himself, breathless and exhausted, against the trivial barrier that stood between his eyes and hers. In his wild, half violent impatience, however, he stumbled. That roaring, too, confused him. He fell forward, it seemed, for twilight had merged in darkness, and he misjudged the steps, the distances he yet knew so well. For a moment, certainly, he lay at full length upon the uneven ground against the wall; the steps had tripped him. And then he raised himself and knocked. His right hand struck upon the small, white garden gate. Upon the two lost fingers he felt the impact. "I am here," he cried, with a deep sound in his throat as though utterance was choked and difficult. "I have come back to find you."

For a fraction of a second he waited, while the world stood still and waited with him. But there was no delay. Her answer came at once: "I am well.... I am happy.... I am waiting."

And the voice was dear and marvellous as of old. Though the words were strange, reminding him of something dreamed, forgotten, lost, it seemed, he did not take special note of them. He only wondered that she did not open instantly that he might see her. Speech could follow, but sight came surely first! There was this lightning-flash of disappointment in him. Ah, she was lengthening out the marvellous moment, as often and often she had done before. It was to tease him that she made him wait. He knocked again; he pushed against the unyielding surface. For he noticed that it was unyielding; and there was a depth in the tender voice that he could not understand.

"Open!" he cried again, but louder than before. "I have come back to find you!" And as he said it the mist struck cold and thick against his face.

But her answer froze his blood.

"I cannot open."

And a sudden anguish of despair rose over him; the sound of her voice was strange; in it was faintness, distance as well as depth. It seemed to echo. Something frantic seized him then the panic sense.

"Open, open! Come out to me!" he tried to shout. His voice failed oddly; there was no power in it. Something appalling struck him between the eyes. "For God's sake, open. I'm waiting here! Open, and come out to me!"

The reply was muffled by distance that already seemed increasing; he was conscious of freezing cold about him in his heart.

"I cannot open. You must come in to me. I'm here and waiting always."

He knew not exactly then what happened, for the cold grew deeper and the icy mist was in his throat. No words would come. He rose to his knees, and from his knees to his feet. He stooped. With all his force he knocked again; in a blind frenzy of despair he hammered and beat against the unyielding barrier of the small, white garden gate. He battered it till the skin of his knuckles was torn and bleeding--the first two fingers of a hand already mutilated. He remembers the torn and broken skin, for he noticed in the gloom that stains upon the gate bore witness to his violence; it was not till afterwards that he remembered the other fact--that the hand had already suffered mutilation, long, long years ago. The power of sound was feebly in him; he called aloud; there was no answer. He tried to scream, but the scream was muffled in his throat before it issued properly; it was a nightmare scream. As a last resort he flung himself bodily upon the unyielding gate, with such precipitate violence, moreover, that his face struck against its surface.

From the friction, then, along the whole length of his cheek he knew that the surface was not smooth. Cold and rough that surface was; but also it was not of wood. Moreover, there was writing on it he had not seen before. How he deciphered it in the gloom, he never knew. The lettering was deeply cut. Perhaps he traced it with his fingers; his right hand certainly lay stretched upon it. He made out a name, a date, a broken verse from the Bible, and the words, "died peacefully." The lettering was sharply cut with edges that were new. For the date was of a week ago; the broken verse ran, "When the shadows flee away . . ." and the small, white garden gate was unyielding because it was of--stone.

At the inn he found himself staring at a table from which the tea things had not been cleared away. There was a railway time-table in his hands, and his head was bent forwards over it, trying to decipher the lettering in the growing twilight. Beside him, still fingering a shilling, stood the serving-girl; her other hand held a brown tray with a running dog painted upon its dented surface. It swung to and fro a little as she spoke, evidently continuing a conversation her customer had begun. For she was giving information in the colourless, disinterested voice such persons use:

"We all went to the funeral, sir, all the country people went. The grave was her father's the family grave. . . ." Then, seeing that her customer was too absorbed in the time-table to listen further, she said no more but began to pile the tea things on to the tray with noisy clatter.

Ten minutes later, in the road, he stood hesitating. The signal at the station just opposite was already down. The autumn mist was rising. He looked along the winding road that melted away into the distance, then slowly turned and reached the platform just as the London train came in. He felt very old--too old to walk six miles....

** The story is reprinted from Day and Night Stories. Algernon Blackwood. New York: E.P. Dutton & Co., 1917.

LOVE - Explain

 

I am nothing special of this I am sure. I am just a common man with common thoughts. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten. But I've loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, that has always been enough.

 

Within you I lose myself. Without you I find myself wanting to become lost again.

One who has not only the four S's, which are required in every good lover, but even the whole alphabet; as for example... Agreeable, Bountiful, Constant, Dutiful, Easy, Faithful, Gallant, Honorable, Ingenious, Kind, Loyal, Mild, Noble, Officious, Prudent, Quiet, Rich, Secret, True, Valiant, Wise; the X indeed, is too harsh a letter to agree with him, but he is Young and Zealous.

LOVE - Questions & Doubts

Just because somebody doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

What can the love in my soul be compared to another wonderful soul which is so far and yet so close of my self?

What can this symbiosis between two souls can be?

What can love be when you feel you cannot sleep at night, that every drop of dew becomes a crystal in your heart, when every breeze of wind has magical meanings?

What can love be when you feel that you want nothing more in this world that to be with the soul you love?

But what can love be in other transcendental realities?

What about our souls?

Are our souls a mere mood of a fairy or a lightening in a summer rain?

Our souls could be all of this and much more. But what really happens in that transcendental reality when we feel we are truly in love, that we love so much that it hurts?

That the air in the room is unbreathable, that the sentimental, spiritual or physical distances kill us? What happens when dawn find us sadder than ever, looking for an excuse or an argument for the person we love so much, our Great Love?

What are all these?

What are the looks lost in the desert horizons of unfulfilment or those in the eyes that deeply loose each other in the others inside the souls?

LOVE - The Feeling

LOVE: We think about it, Sing about it, Dream about it && Loose sleep worrying about it. When we don't know we have it, we search for it. When we discover it, we don't know what to do with it. When we have it, we fear loosing it. It is the constant source of pleasure and pain. But we don't know which it will be from one moment to the next. It is a short word, easy to spell, difficult to define && IMPOSSIBLE to live without.

LOVE - The Conclusion

Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being "in love" which any of us can convince ourselves we are.

Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two."

-St. Augustine

We were given: Two hands to hold. Two legs to walk. Two eyes to see. Two ears to listen. But why only one heart? Because the other was given to someone else. For us to find.



 

Love is as much of an object as an obsession, everybody wants it, everybody seeks it, but few ever achieve it, those who do will cherish it, be lost in it, and among all, never... never forget it.

We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.

 

I self destruct every relationship so that i don't get hurt... but in truth i just hurt myself worse in the long run..

LOVE - Refined

You've spent your whole life running and running, trying to catch up with something that has never been there for you. And all you've done is go farther and farther away from the precious love that's been waiting for you all the time.

When you smiled you had my undivided attention. When you laughed you had my urge to laugh with you. When you cried you had my urge to hold you. When you said you loved me, you had my heart forever.

LOVE - Straight from the heart ..

I don't pretend to know what love is for everyone, but I can tell you what it is for me; love is knowing all about someone, and still wanting to be with them more than any other person, love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself, including the things you might be ashamed of, love is feeling comfortable and safe with someone, but still getting weak knees when they walk into a room and smile at you.

LOVE - Redefined ..

Find a guy who calls you beautiful instead of hot, who calls you back when you hang up on him, who will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat, or will stay awake just to watch you sleep... wait for the boy who kisses your forehead, who wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats, who holds your hand in front of his friends, who thinks you're just as pretty without makeup on. One who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares and how lucky his is to have you.... The one who turns to his friends and says, 'that's her.'

I am LOST ..Feel so DEAD !!

Known the way and still so lost.

Another night waiting for someone to take me home.

Have you ever been so lost?

The problem with finding yourself is that you have to know who you want to be. I think.

Or maybe you know all along who you want to be, but you just don't know how to get there. Or maybe you've always known who you want to be, but then you start believing the world's greatest lie:

At a certain point in our lives we lose control of what's happening to us and our lives become controlled by fate.

"Everyone seems to have a clear idea of how other people should lead their lives, but none about his or her own." [The Alchemist]

 I judge myself by judging others, but is that the way to be? How do I know what is best for me? Do I already know?

I know I want to be a loved and love you, but these damn obstacles keep me back. Like not making enough time for you and me, me trying to impress too many people and getting too immersed with my job, or me not knowing what kind of person you want me to be.

 

I want to work but i love u too..i want to be the best lover. Yes, that is what I want to be. That is why I still go on. And I'll be damned if I don't achieve my dream. I'll be damned to the deepest ring of hell for giving up.

Have you ever been so lost?

Known the way and still so lost?

The Devoted Son ..

Years ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together they traveled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet, and many others adorned the walls of their family estate. The widowed elderly man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector. The son's trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world.

As winter approached, war engulfed their nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, the elderly man received a telegram that his beloved son was missing in action. The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his

son again. Within days his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic. Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season-a season that he and his son had so looked forward to in the past-would visit his house no longer. On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home. He opened the door and was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hand.

The soldier introduced himself to the old man by saying, "I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you." As the two began to talk, the soldier told of how the man's son had told every one of his-and his father's-love of fine art work. "I'm also an artist," said the soldier, "and I want to give you this." As the old man began to unwrap the package, paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son.

Though the world would never consider it a work of genius, the painting featured the young man's face in striking detail.

Overcome with emotion, the old man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the portrait above the fireplace. A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars worth of paintings. And then the old man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.

During the days and weeks that followed, the man learned that his son had rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stilled his caring heart. As the stories of his son's gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease his grief, as he realized that, although his son was no longer with him, the boy's life would live on because of those he had touched. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the priceless pieces for which museums around the world clamored. He told his neighbors it was the greatest gift he had ever received. The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away.

The art world was in anticipation, since, with the old man's passing, and his only son dead, those paintings would be sold at an auction. According to the will of the old man, all of the art works would be auctioned on Christmas Day, the way he had received his greatest gift.

The day finally arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings. Dreams could be fulfilled this day; greatness could be achieved as some could say," I have the greatest collection." The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum list... It was the painting of the old man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid, but the room was silent.

"Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Moments passed as no one spoke.
From the back of the room came, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son. Let's forget it and get on to the good ones."

More voices echoed in agreement. "No, we have to sell this one-first," replied the auctioneer. "Now who will take the son?"

Finally, a friend of the old man spoke. "Will you take $10 for the painting? That's all I have.
"Will anyone go higher?" called the auctioneer. After more silence he said, "Going once, going twice... Gone!"

The gavel fell. Cheers filled the room and someone shouted, "Now we can get on with it and bid on these treasures!"

The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced that the auction was over. Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Then someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean it's over? We didn't come here for a portrait of some old man's son! What about all of the other paintings? There are millions of dollars worth of art work here. We demand an explanation!"

The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son...gets it all."

Just as the art collectors discovered on that day...The message is still the same...the love of the Father....a Father whose son gave his life for others...And because of that Father's love...

Whoever takes the Son gets it all.

 

The Princess Who Wanted To Be Beautiful !!

Once upon a time there was a little Princess who was very unhappy because she was not as pretty to look at as she thought a little Princess should be.

She sat in the garden and was sorrowful and cried a great deal of the time, because she felt quite sure that no one would ever make her a queen.

One day she sat by the wall of the garden with her hands in her lap, and was looking very sad. An old woman, very bent and gray, and carrying a bundle, passed along the road outside and looked over the wall.

“Why do you cry, little Princess?” she asked.

“Because I am not beautiful,” the little Princess replied, “and so I shall never be made a queen.”

“Why do you not go out into the world and find someone who can make you beautiful?” asked the old woman as she started again on her way. And this seemed like such a new adventure that the little Princess went out through the garden gate and started down the road.

The old woman had disappeared as if the road had taken her into its gray dust, but before the little Princess had gone very far she overtook a boy. He was stumbling along the road as if it were hard for him to find his way. He put out his hand and touched the little Princess’ silken sleeve.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I am going to find someone who will help to make me beautiful,” the little Princess said. “I am not pretty enough to be a queen.”

“Wait a while and help me,” said the little boy. “I am blind, and I cannot find my way home.”

So the little Princess took the blind boy’s hand in hers and walked along with him, leading him very gently, until they came to the cottage by the side of the road where he lived.

Then the little Princess went on, hurrying, for she felt that she had lost a great deal of time. But before she had gone very far, she saw a little girl standing by the edge of the woods and crying. When the little girl saw the Princess, she looked up and asked, “Where are you going?”

“I am going to find someone who will help me to be beautiful,” the little Princess said. “I am not pretty enough to be a queen.”

“Wait awhile and help me,” said the little girl. “My mother is ill, and I went to the dairy to fetch her some milk and eggs, but I have no money, and they say that I must pay.”

The little Princess pulled from the silk bag at her side a bright gold piece. She had but two of them to buy herself food on her journey, but she gave one to the child. “This is to pay for the milk and eggs,” she said. Then the little girl laughed with happiness. Her smile was as bright as the sunshine that came down through the trees and lighted them both.

“Now I must make great haste,” thought the little Princess. “It is getting on in the day and I am no more beautiful than when I started.” But she had gone only a little way when she came suddenly upon the same old woman, who had spoken to her in the morning.

“Did you do as I bade you?” asked the old woman.

“Yes,” said the little Princess. “But I am still ugly to look at,” she added, dropping her head.

“Oh no, you are not,” said the old woman. “Look!” And she held a little mirror before the face of the Princess.

A strange thing had happened. The little Princess’s eyes, in leading the little blind boy, had grown as bright as stars. Her hair was as shining as the gold piece which she had given away.

“Shall I ever be a queen!” asked the Princess.

The old woman took a small gold crown from the bundle she carried and set it upon the little Princess’ head.

“You are a queen, my dear!” she said.

Eternal Love - A Love Letter

 

My Sweetheart, here’s an expression of my feelings for you and our perfect love…it indeed is a pleasure to unveil my innermost feelings for you…hope you like it…

I Love You ..

That was a beautiful day when I met you….that was a sweet time when our eyes met ….that was a memorable day when you held my hand for the first time…that was the judgment day when you expressed your love to me that was an intoxicating moment when we kissed each other…..that was a pleasurable moment when you touched me….that was an everlasting moment when we united as one….likewise there are numerous such moments which when penned down would  just go on and never end….

Love is a beautiful feeling and I feel so blessed to have experienced this purity and impeccability....

Everything came to a standstill when I had an inkling of it….

My world changed inside out….i love you like I never ever loved no one before you…i am grateful to you for sowing the seeds of love in me….though initially I was diffident but gradually I got under your influence and now i have been smitten by your love…..

I had been waiting for so long to experience this perfect love…..and when it dawned upon me…it just blew me away….it’s just simply amazing…..believe me dear our love is an archetype of perfect true love…..it is immaculate and divine….it exudes a kind of equanimity which provides a complete blissful state of mind….a complete out of the world experience…

The world stops when I am with you…you take me to a different place….that time I feel invincible…being with you is tantamount to timelessness…

You have been the one for me….when I know you I know no one….when I talk to you I don’t feel like talking to anyone…..when I look at you I don’t desire to glance anywhere else….with you I got to experience how true love is…

Baby you completed me…you filled me….you brought happiness in my life… I thank you for everything…

Love knows no limitations and boundaries….it touches you with its sweetness that lingers perpetually…

It fills you with the utmost satisfaction and contentment….

The happiness of this material world is fleeting and very momentary….

Love is something very immaterial…Something very pure and chaste…Something which is profound and deep rooted…Something which is prolific and generous…Something absolute and unconditional…..I believe love is empyrean…

We both are blessed to have experienced the extreme state of  ecstasy…Love is God..

Talking about you and your love…

Well do you know you are a very sweet person…You possess a kind of charisma which has some intoxication….The way you look at me…The way you talk with me…The way you kiss me with utmost passion…The way you hold me….You do some magic…

I am completely under your spell….Your love has a propitiating effect which pacifies me to the deepest….I love you…

You got the flair to regale the people around…You display absolute sincerity and dedication towards the ascribed tasks…You seem to be poised and nonchalant about the things you do….

You sequester yourself from the peripheral world just to execute your duties…You got the highest sense of responsibility…You associate with dynamism….Your ways are meticulous…

You practice things to perfection…. Your capacity to work is prodigious and you showcase great prescience which I sincerely appreciate…Your efforts are going to yield results, that is certain…You truly are an amazing person…Knowing you is a pleasure….

    
You have been the driving force…You have been the guiding light….You raise me up…You bring out the best in me…You have provided me with the desired strength to face the situations…..You made me strong enough….Even if I extol more on you, it wouldn’t suffice and would fall short before your greatness ….You hold a special place in my heart and in my life….You are my sweetheart…I love you for million reasons…    

Reminiscence of our blossoming love will always be cherished and would forever linger, it will stay as fresh and pure as dew drops….

Love never yields…

Love is the ultimate truth which would forever subsist…

Love You till the last breadth of my life…

Beggar King

Once there was a time, according to legend, when Ireland was ruled by a king who had no son. The king sent out his couriers to post notices in all the towns of his realm. The notices advised that every qualified young man should apply for an interview with the king as a possible successor to the throne. However, all such candidates must have these two qualifications: They must (1) love God and (2) love their fellow human beings.

The Young man about whom this legend centers saw a notice and reflected that he loved God and, also, his neighbors. One thing stopped him, he was so poor that he had no clothes that would be presentable in the sight of the king. Nor did he have the funds to buy provisions for the long journey to the castle. So the young man begged here, and borrowed there, finally managing to scrounge enough money for the appropriate clothes and the necessary supplies.

Properly attired and well-suited, the young man set out on his quest, and had almost completed the journey when he came upon a poor beggar by the side of the road. The beggar sat trembling, clad only in tattered rags. His extended arms pleaded for help. His weak voice croaked, "I'm hungry and cold. Please help me... please?"

The young man was so moved by this beggar's need that he immediately stripped off his new clothes and put on the tattered threads of the beggar. Without a second thought he gave the beggar all his provision as well. Then, somewhat hesitantly, he continued his journey to the castle dressed in the rags of the beggar, lacking provisions for his return trek home. Upon his arrival at the castle, a king's attendant showed him in to the great hall. After a brief respite to clean off the journey's grime, he was finally admitted to the throne room of the king.

The young man bowed low before his majesty. When he raised his eyes, he gaped in astonishment. "You... it's you! You're the beggar by the side of the road."

"Yes," the king replied with a twinkle, "I was that beggar."

"But...bu...bu... you are not really a beggar. You are the king for real. Well, then, why did you do this to me?" the young man stammered after gaining more of his composure.

"Because I had to find out if you genuinely love God and your fellow human beings," said the king. "I knew that if I came to you as king, you would have been impressed by my gem-encrusted golden crown and my royal robes. You would have done anything I asked of you because of my regal character. But that way I would never have known what is truly in your heart. So I used a ruse. I came to you as a beggar with no claims on you except for the love in your hear. And I discovered that you sincerely do love God and your fellow human beings. You will be my successor," promised the king. "You will inherit my kingdom."

Love in a Paper Bag

It was Molly's job to hand her father his brown paper lunch bag each morning before he headed off to work. One morning, in addition to his usual lunch bag, Molly handed him a second paper bag. This one was worn and held together with duct tape, staples, and paper clips.

"Why two bags?" her father asked.

"The other is something else," Molly answered.

"What's in it?"

"Just some stuff. Take it with you."

Not wanting to hold court over the matter, he stuffed both sacks into his briefcase, kissed Molly and rushed off. At midday, while hurriedly scarfing down his real lunch, he tore open Molly's bag and shook out the contents: two hair ribbons, three small stones,
a plastic dinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny sea shell, two animal crackers, a marble, a used lipstick, a small doll, two chocolate kisses, and 13 pennies.

The busy father smiled, finished eating, and swept the desk clean into the wastebasket- leftover lunch, Molly's junk and all.

That evening, Molly ran up behind him as he read the paper.

"Where's my bag?"

"What bag?"

"You know, the one I gave you this morning."

"I left it at the office. Why?"

"I forgot to put this note in it," she said. "And, besides, those are my things in the sack, Daddy, the ones I really like - I thought you might like to play with them, but now I want them back. You didn't lose the bag, did you, Daddy?"

"Oh, no," he said, lying. "I just forgot to bring it home. I'll bring it tomorrow."

While Molly hugged her father's neck, he unfolded the note that had not made it into the sack: "I love you, Daddy."

Molly had given him her treasures. All that a 7-year-old held dear. Love in a paper bag, and he missed it - not only missed it, but had thrown it in the wastebasket. So back he went to the office. Just ahead of the night janitor, he picked up the wastebasket and poured the contents on his desk.

After washing the mustard off the dinosaurs and spraying the whole thing with breath-freshener to kill the smell of onions, he carefully smoothed out the wadded ball of brown paper, put the treasures inside and carried it home gingerly, like an injured kitten. The bag didn't look so good, but the stuff was all there and that's what counted.

After dinner, he asked Molly to tell him about the stuff in the sack. It took a long time to tell. Everything had a story or a memory or was attached to dreams and imaginary friends. Fairies had brought some of the things.

He'd given her the chocolate kisses; she'd kept them for when she needed them. "Sometimes I think of all the times in this sweet life," he mused, "when I must have missed the affection I was being given. A friend calls this 'standing knee deep in the river and dying of thirst."

We should all remember that it's not the destination that counts in life, but the JOURNEY. That journey with the people we love is all that really matters. Such a simple truth so easily forgotten.

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE - Retold **

It was a fine night in the autumn of the year 1805, and the stars shone as brilliantly over the gay city of Paris as if they had burned in an Italian heaven. The cumbrous mass of the palace of the Tuileries, instead of lying like a dark leviathan in the shadows of the night, blazed with light in all its many-windowed length; for the soldier emperor, the idol of his subjects, that night gave a grand ball and reception to the world. Troops in full uniform were under arms, and the great lamps of the court yard gazed brightly on the channelled bayonets and polished musket barrels of the sentinels. Carriage after carriage drew up at the great portal, and emitted beautiful ladies, brilliantly attired, and marshals and staff officers blazing with embroidery; for Napoleon, simple and unostentatious in his own person, well knew the importance of surrounding himself with a brilliant court; and the people, even the rude and ragged denizens of the Faubourgs St. Antoine and St. Marceau, as they hung upon the iron railing and scanned the splendid dresses of the guests as they alighted from their carriages, were well pleased to see that a throne created by themselves could vie in splendor with the old hereditary seats of loyalty that existed in spite of the execrations of the million. They marked with pleasure the arms of some of the ancient Bourbon nobility on the panels of some of the glittering equipages, for all the aristocracy of France had not joined the banners of her adversaries.

Within the walls of the palace, in the reception room, the scene was yet more dazzling. The draperies of the throne, at the foot of which stood Josephine, more impressive from her native and winning loveliness than the splendor of the priceless diamonds that decked her brow and neck, and the emperor in the simple attire of a gentleman, with no distinctive ornament save the grand cross of the Legion of Honor: the draperies of the throne, we say, no longer presented the golden lilies of the Bourbon, but the golden bees of Napoleon—symbols of the industry and perseverance which had raised him to his rank. The eye, as it roamed around the brilliant circle, encountered few of those vapid faces which make the staple of the surroundings of an hereditary throne. Every epaulet that sparkled there graced the shoulder of a man who had won his grade by exposure, gallantry, and intellect. There was the scarred veteran of the Sambre and the Meuse, heroes who had crossed "that terrible bridge of Lodi" in the path of the French tricolor and the face of the withering fire of Austrian batteries—dim eyes that had been blighted by the burning sands of Egypt, warriors who had braved the perils of the Alps, and the dangers of the plains of Lombardy.

Somewhat apart from the brilliant circle, in the embrasure of one of the deep and lofty windows, stood a young officer, in conversation with a beautiful young woman. The latter was attired in white satin, and the rich lace veil that half hid the orange flower in her hair, and descended gracefully over her faultless shoulders, proclaimed her to be a bride. And the young soldier, her companion? The radiant pride and joy that beamed from his fine dark eye, the animation of his manner, and the tenderness of his tone, as he addressed the lady, emphatically proclaimed the bridegroom. Such, indeed, were the relations of Colonel Lioncourt and Leonide Lasalle, who had that day only lost her maiden appellation at the altar of Notre Dame.

So absorbed was the young colonel in the conversation, that it was only after he had been twice addressed that he turned and noticed the proximity of a third person.

"Sorry to interrupt you, colonel," said the new comer, a young man with dark lowering brows, deep-set eyes, and a sinister expression, heightened by a sabre cut that traversed his left cheek diagonally, "but his majesty desires to speak to you."

"Au revoir, Leonide," said the young colonel to his bride; "I will join you again in a few moments. The emperor is laconic enough in his communications. Meanwhile, I leave you to the care of my friend."

The emperor was already impatient, and the moment the colonel appeared he grasped his arm familiarly, and led him aside, while the immediate group of courtiers fell back respectfully, and out of earshot.

"Colonel," said Napoleon, "I have news—great news. The enemies of France will not give us a moment's repose. It is no longer England alone that threatens us. I could have crushed England, had she met me single handed. In a month my eagles would have lighted on the tower of London. Russia, Austria, and Sweden have joined her. Our frontier is threatened by half a million men. Lioncourt, you are brave and trusty, and I will tell you what I dare communicate to few. My movements must be as secret as the grave. Paris must not suspect them. What do you think I propose doing?"

"To strengthen the frontier by concentrating your troops on different points, sire." Napoleon smiled.

"No, Lioncourt; we will beard the lion in his den. I have broken up the camp at Boulogne. I will rush at once into the heart of Germany. I will separate the enemy's columns from each other. The first division that marches against me shall be outflanked, attacked in the rear, and cut to pieces. One after another they shall fall before me. In three months I shall triumph over the coalition. I shall dictate terms of peace from the field of battle. Lioncourt, they are short sighted. They know nothing of me yet. They fancy that my heart is engaged in these frivolous pomps and gayeties with which I amuse the people—that I have become enervated by 'Capuan delights.' But you know me better. You know that my throne is the back of my war horse—that the sword is my sceptre, cannon my diplomatists. I wished for peace—they have elected war; on their heads be the guilt and the bloodshed."

He paused, out of breath with the rapidity of his utterance. Colonel Lioncourt waited respectfully till he should recommence.

"Colonel," he said, at last, in a tone of sadness, a melancholy shade passing over his fine features, "they have described me as a sanguinary monster. History will do me justice. History will attest that I never drew the sword without just cause—that I returned it to its scabbard on the earliest opportunity. Not on my soul the guilt of slaughtered thousands, of villages burned, of peasants driven from their homes, of fields ravaged, of women widowed, and children orphaned. My whole soul yearns for peace. I would build my true greatness on the promulgation of just laws, the culture of religion and intellect, the triumphs of agriculture, and the arts of peace. But I must obey my destiny. Europe must be ploughed by the sword. The struggle is between civilization and barbarism, freedom and despotism, the Frank and the Cossack. But I prate too long. Colonel, I sent for you to pronounce a hard sentence. Your regiment of hussars is already under arms. You must march to-night—instantly."

"Sire," said Lioncourt, with a sigh. "This news will kill my poor wife."

"Josephine shall console her," said the emperor. "I would have informed you earlier, but St. Eustache, your lieutenant colonel, whom I now see talking with madame, advised me not to do so."

"I thank him," muttered Lioncourt bitterly.

"You have no time to lose. I counsel you to leave the presence quietly. Let your wife learn that you have marched by a letter. Better that than the agony of parting. I know something of human, and particularly feminine, nature. Adieu, colonel. Courage and good fortune."

And so saying, the emperor glided easily back to the circle he had left. Lioncourt's brain reeled under the blow he had received. He gazed upon his wife as she stood radiant, beautiful, and unsuspicious, under a glittering chandelier, with the same feelings with which a man takes his last look of the shore as he sinks forever in the treacherous wave. In another moment he was gone. The sentries presented arms as he passed out of the palace. His orderly was in the court yard holding his charger by the bridle. The colonel threw himself into the saddle, and was soon at the head of the regiment. The trumpets and kettledrums were mute—for such were the general orders and the regiment rode out of the city in silence, broken only by the heavy tramping of the horses' hoofs, and the clanking of scabbards rebounding from their flanks. As they passed out of one of the gates, the lieutenant colonel, St. Eustache, joined the column at a gallop, and reported to his commander.

St. Eustache had been a lover of Leonide Lasalle, had proposed for her hand, and been rejected. Still, he had not utterly ceased to love her, but his desire of possession was now mingled with a thirst of vengeance. He both hated and loved the beautiful Leonide, while he regarded his fortunate rival and commanding officer with feelings of unmitigated hatred. Yet he had art enough to conceal his guilty feelings and guilty projects. While he rode beside the colonel, his thoughts ran somewhat in this vein:—

"Well, at least I have succeeded in marring their joy. Lioncourt's triumph over me was short lived. He may never see his bride again. He is venturesome and rash. We have sharp work before us, or I'm very much mistaken, and Colonel Eugene Lioncourt may figure in the list of killed in the first general engagement. Then I renew my suit, and if Leonide again reject me, there's no virtue in determination."

While the colonel's regiment was slowly pursuing its way, the festivities at the Tuileries were drawing to a close. Madame Lioncourt wondered very much at the absence of her husband, and still more so when the guests began to depart, and he did not reappear to escort her to her carriage. It was then that the empress honored her with an interview, and, with tears in her beautiful eyes, informed her of her husband's march in obedience to orders. The poor lady bore bravely up against the effect of this intelligence so long as she was in the presence of the emperor and empress; but when alone in her carriage, on her way to her now solitary home, she burst into a flood of tears, and it seemed as if her very heart were breaking. The next morning brought a short but kind note from her husband. It was overflowing with affection and full of hope. The campaign, conducted by Napoleon's genius, he thought, could not fail to be brief, and he should return with new laurels, to lay them at the feet of his lovely bride. This little note was treasured up by Leonide as if it had been the relic of a saint, and its words of love and promise cheered her day after day in the absence of her husband.

At last, news came to the capital from the seat of war. The battle of Austerlitz had been fought and won. The cannon thundered from the Invalides, Paris blazed with illuminations, and the steeples reeled with the crashing peals of the joy bells. No particulars came at first; many had been killed and wounded; but the French eagles were victorious, and this was all the people at first cared for. Lioncourt's regiment had covered itself with glory, but no special mention was made of him in the first despatches.

At last, one morning, a visitor was announced to Madame Lioncourt, and she hastily descended to her salon to receive him. St. Eustache advanced to meet her. She eagerly scanned his countenance as he held out his hand. It was grave and sombre. A second glance showed her a black crape sword knot on the hilt of his sabre. She fainted and sank upon the floor before St. Eustache could catch her in his arms. He summoned her maid, and the latter, with the assistance of another servant, bore her mistress from the apartment.

St. Eustache paced the room to and fro, occasionally raising his eyes to contemplate the rich gilded ceiling, the paintings and statuettes, which adorned the salon.

"Some style here!" he muttered. "And they say she has this in her own right. Lioncourt left her some funds, I fancy. Young, beautiful, rich; by Jove, she is a prize."

His meditations were interrupted by the return of Madame Lioncourt, who motioned her visitor to be seated, and sank into a fauteuil herself. She was pale as marble, and her eyes were red with recent tears, but her voice was calm and firm as she said,—

"I need hardly ask you, sir, if my poor husband has fallen. I could read ill news in your countenance as soon as you appeared. Were you near him when he fell?"

"I was beside him, madame. We were charging the flying Russians. Our horses, maddened with excitement, had carried us far in advance of our column, when suddenly we were surrounded by a group of horsemen, who took courage and rallied for a moment. Lioncourt was carrying death in every blow he dealt, when a Russian cavalry officer, discharging his pistol at point blank distance, shot him dead from the saddle. I saw no more, for I was myself wounded and swept away in the torrent of the fight. But he is dead. Even if that pistol shot had not slain him, the hoofs of his own troopers, as they rushed madly forward in pursuit of the enemy, would have trampled every spark of life out of his bosom."

Leonide wrung her hands.

"But you, at least, recovered his—his remains?"

"Pardon, madame. I instituted a search for our colonel's body where he fell. But the spot had already been visited by marauders. All the insignia of rank had disappeared; and in the mangled heap of stripped and mutilated corpses, it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe."

The widowed bride groaned deeply as she covered her face with her handkerchief and rocked to and fro on her seat.

"Madame," said St. Eustache, "I will no longer intrude upon your grief. When time has somewhat assuaged the poignancy of your affliction, I will again call on you to tender my respectful sympathies."

Time wore on, and with it brought those alleviations it affords to even the keenest sorrow. The assiduity of friends compelled Madame Lioncourt to lay aside her widow's weeds, and reappear in the great world of fashion. There, whatever may have been her secret sorrow, she learned to wear the mask of a smiling exterior, and even to appear gayest among the gay, as if she sought forgetfulness in the wildest excitement and most frivolous amusement.

During all this time, St. Eustache, who had got a military appointment at Paris, was ever at her side. It was impossible for her to avoid him. He escorted her to her carriage when she left a ball room; he was the first to claim her hand when she entered. He was so respectful, so sad, so humble, that it was impossible to take offence at his assiduities, and she even began to like him in spite of former prejudices. Though it was evident that the freedom of her hand had renewed his former hopes, still no words of his ever betrayed their revival; only sometimes a suppressed sigh, the trembling of his hand as it touched hers, gave evidence that could not be mistaken.

Affairs were in this condition, when a brother of Leonide, Alfred Lasalle, a young advocate from the provinces, came to establish himself in Paris. He at once became the protector and guardian of his sister, and, as such, conceived the same violent dislike to St. Eustache that Leonide had formerly entertained towards him. St. Eustache, after many fruitless attempts to conciliate the brother, gave it up in despair. Still, whenever Alfred's affairs called him away, he supplied his place with the young widow.

At this time, play sometimes ran very high in the salons of the capital; and Leonide rose from the écarté table one night, indebted to St. Eustache in the sum of a thousand crowns.

"Call on me to-morrow," said Leonide, with a flushed face, "and I will repay you."

St. Eustache was pretty well acquainted with the affairs of the young widow. He knew that she had been living on her capital for some time, and that she had reached the limit of her resources. He knew that it was utterly impossible for her to raise a thousand crowns in twenty-four hours. She must, therefore, he thought, cancel her debt by her hand. This was the alternative to which he had been manœuvring to bring her; therefore he entered her salon the next day with the air of a victor. He was no longer covetous of wealth; he had prospered in his own speculations, and was immensely rich; the hand of Leonide, even without her heart, was now all he sought.

Madame Lioncourt received him with the easy assurance of a woman of the world. He, on his part, advanced with the grace of a French courtier.

"You came to remind me, sir," said the lady, "that I was unfortunate at play last night."

"No, madame," said St. Eustache, "it is yourself who reminds me of it. Pardon me, I am somewhat acquainted with your circumstances. I know that you are no longer as rich as you are beautiful——"

"Sir!"

"Pardon the allusion, madam; I did not intend to insult you, but only to suggest that the payment of money was not the only method of cancelling a debt."

"I do not understand you, sir."

"Leonide, it is time that you did understand me!" cried St. Eustache, impetuously. "It is time that I should throw off the mask and assert my claim to your hand. I loved you once—I love you still. You are now in my power. You cannot pay me the money you owe me; but you can make me happy. Your hand——"

"Colonel St. Eustache," said the lady, coldly, as she rose and handed him a pocket book, "be good enough to count those notes."

St. Eustache ran over them hastily.

"A thousand crowns, madame," he said.

"Then the debt is cancelled. Never renew the proposal of this morning. Good day, sir."

With a haughty inclination of the head, she swept out of the room.

"Never renew the proposal of this morning!" said St. Eustache to himself. "A thousand furies! It shall be renewed to-night. She will be at the masquerade at the opera house. I have bribed her chambermaid, and know her dress. She shall hear me plead my suit. I have dared too much, perilled too much, to give her up so easily."

Amidst the gay crowd at the opera house was a light figure in a pink domino, attended by one in black. Not to make a mystery of these characters, they were Madame Lioncourt and her brother.

"Dear Alfred," said the lady, "I am afraid you impoverished yourself to aid me in extricating myself from the toils of my persevering suitor."

"Say nothing of it, Leonide," replied Alfred. "Your liberty is cheaply purchased by the sacrifice."

"Lady, one word with you," said a low voice at her side.

She turned, and beheld a pilgrim with scrip, staff, and cross, and closely masked.

"Twenty, if you will, reverend sir," she replied gayly. "But methinks this is a strange scene for one of your solemn vocation."

"The true man," replied the mask, "finds something to interest him in every scene of life. Wherever men and women assemble in crowds, there is always an opportunity for counsel and consolation. The pious pilgrim should console the sad; and are not the saddest hearts found in the gayest throngs?"

"True, true," replied Leonide, with a deep sigh.

"But you, at least, are happy, lady," said the pilgrim.

"Happy! Could you see my face, you would see a mask more impenetrable than this velvet one I wear. It is all smiles," she whispered. "But," she added, laying her hand on her bosom,—

"'I have a silent sorrow here,

A grief I'll ne'er impart;

It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear,

But it consumes my heart.'"

"Can it be possible!" cried the pilgrim. "You have the reputation of being one of the gayest of the Parisian ladies."

"Then you know me not."

"I know you by name, Madame Lioncourt."

"Then you should know that name represents a noble and gallant heart—the life of my own widowed bosom. You should know that Lioncourt, the bravest of the brave, the truest of the true, lies in a nameless grave at Austerlitz, the very spot unknown."

"I too was at Austerlitz," said the pilgrim, in a deep voice.

"You were at Austerlitz!"

"Yes, madame, in the—hussars."

"It was my husband's regiment."

"Yes, madame. I was for a long time supposed to be dead. My comrades saw me fall, and I was reported for dead. Faith, I came near dying. But I fell into the hands of some good people, though they were Austrians, and they took good care of me, and cured my wounds; and here I am at last."

"Ah! why," exclaimed Madame Lioncourt, "may this not have been the fate of your colonel? Why may not he too have survived the carnage, and been preserved in the same manner? His body was never recognized."

"Very possibly Lioncourt may still be living."

"Yet St. Eustache told me he was dead."

"He is a false traitor!" cried the pilgrim. "Leonide!" cried he, with thrilling emphasis, "you have borne bad news; can you bear good?"

"God will give me strength to bear good tidings," cried the lady.

"Then arm yourself with all your energy," said the stranger. "Lioncourt lives."

"Lives!" said Leonide, faintly, grasping the arm of the stranger to support herself from falling.

"Courage, madame; I tell you the truth. He lives."

"Then take me to him. The crisis is past. I can bear to meet him; nothing but delay will kill me now!" cried the lady, hurriedly.

"He stands beside you!" said the stranger.

A long, deep sigh, and Leonide lay in the arms of the pilgrim, who was still masked. But she recovered herself with superhuman energy, and said,—

"Come, come, I must see you. I must kneel at your feet. I must clasp your hands; my joy—my love—my life!"

"Room, room, there!" cried a seneschal. "The emperor!"

"Dearest Leonide," whispered a voice in her ear, "I resolved to see you again to-night, in spite of your prohibition to renew my suit."

"Then wait here beside me; do not leave me," answered the lady, as she recognized St. Eustache.

"That will I not, dearest," was the fervent reply.

Napoleon, with Josephine leaning on his arm, advanced through the broad space cleared by the attendants, and when he had taken up a position in the centre of the hall, near Lioncourt and his bride, St. Eustache and Lasalle, gave the signal for the company to unmask. As they obeyed, and every face was uncovered, his quick glance caught the pale and handsome features of the young cavalry colonel.

"What!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "Can the grave give up its dead? Do our eyes deceive us? Is this indeed Lioncourt, whom we left dead upon the field of Austerlitz? Advance, man, and satisfy our doubts."

Lioncourt advanced, and the emperor laid his hand upon his arm.

"You are pale as a ghost, man; but still you're flesh and blood. Give an account of yourself. Speak quickly; don't you see these ladies are dying of curiosity? and, faith, so I am too," he added, smiling.

"Sire," said the colonel, "you will, perhaps, remember ordering my regiment in pursuit of the flying Russians?"

"Perfectly well; and they performed the service gallantly. Their rear was cut to pieces."

"St. Eustache and I rode side by side," pursued the colonel.

"Here is St. Eustache," cried the emperor, beckoning the officer to advance.

"My dear colonel!" cried St. Eustache, embracing his old commander.

"Go on, colonel," cried the emperor, stamping his foot impatiently.

"We hung upon the flying rear of the enemy, sabring every man we overtook. Faith, I hardly know what happened afterwards," said the colonel, pausing.

"Take up the thread of the story, St. Eustache," said the emperor; "don't let it break off here."

"Well, sire," said St. Eustache, drawing, a long breath, "as the colonel and I were charging side by side, cutting right and left, separated from our men by the superior speed of our horses, a Russian officer wheeled and shot the colonel from his saddle."

"That was how it happened, Lioncourt," said the emperor. "Now go on. Afterwards——"

"When I came to my senses, sire," resumed Lioncourt, gloomily, "I found myself in the hands of some Austrian peasants. I had been plundered of my epaulets and uniform, and they took me for a common soldier. But they carried me to their cottage, and dressed my wound, and eventually I got well."

"But where were you wounded, colonel?" asked the emperor.

"A pistol ball had entered behind my left shoulder, and came out by my collar bone."

"Behind your left shoulder!" cried Napoleon. "And yet you were facing the enemy. How was that?"

"Because," said the colonel, sternly, "a Frenchman, a soldier, an officer, a disappointed rival, took that opportunity of assassinating me, and shot me with his own hostler pistol."

"His name!" shouted the emperor, quivering with passion, "his name; do you know him?"

"Well.—It was Lieutenant Colonel St. Eustache!"

All eyes were turned on St. Eustache. His knees knocked together, his eyes were fixed, cold drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. But in all that circle of indignant eyes, the detected criminal saw only the eagle orbs of the emperor, that pierced to his very soul.

"Is this charge true?" asked Napoleon, quickly, quivering with one of his tremendous tornadoes of passion.

St. Eustache could not answer; but he nodded his head.

"Your sword!" cried the emperor.

Mechanically the criminal drew his sabre; he had thrown off his domino, and now stood revealed in the uniform he disgraced, and offered the hilt to the emperor. Napoleon clutched it, and snapped the blade under foot. Then, tearing off his epaulets, he threw them on the floor, stamped on them, and beckoning to an officer who stood by, gasped out,—

"A guard, a guard!"

In a few minutes the tramp of armed men was heard in the saloon, and the wretched culprit was removed.

"General Lioncourt," said the emperor to his recovered officer, "your new commission shall be made out to-morrow. In the mean while the lovely Leonide shall teach you to forget your trials."

The assemblage broke up. Lioncourt, his wife, and her faithful brother retired to their now happy home.

The next day was fixed for the trial of the guilty St. Eustache before a court martial—a mere formal preliminary to his execution, for he had confessed his crime; but it appeared that during the preceding night he had managed to escape.

Flying from justice, the wretched criminal reached one of the bridges that span the Seine. Climbing to the parapet, he gazed down into the dark and turbid flood, now black as midnight, that rolled beneath the yawning arch. There was no star in the sky, and here and there only a dim light twinkled, reflected in the muddy wave. Daylight was beginning to streak the east with sickly rays. Soon the great city would be astir. Soon hoarse voices would be clamoring for the traitor, the assassin, the dastard, who, in the hour of victory, had raised his hand against a brother Frenchman. Soon, if he lingered, his ears would be doomed to hear the death penalty—soon the muskets, whose fire he had so often commanded, would be levelled against his breast. All was lost,—all for which he had schemed and sinned,—the applause of his countrymen, the favor of his emperor, the love of Leonide. At least, he would disappoint Paris of a spectacle. He would die by his own act. A sudden spring, a heavy plunge, a few bubbles breaking on the black surface, and the wretched criminal was no more!

Days afterwards, a couple of soldiers, lounging into La Morgue, the dismal receptacle where bodies are exposed for identification, recognized in a pallid and bloated corpse the remains of the late lieutenant colonel of the ——th hussars.

Lioncourt learned his fate, but it threw no shadow over his bright and cloudless happiness.