When I was twenty-three--and George nearly twenty-one--I fell in love with Caroline Springer.

There was just enough of poetry in my nature to throw me into a devotion that was almost wild in its intensity, and after my first meeting with her I knew no peace.

The chill of fear and the fever of confidence came alternating day by day, and months passed ere I had the strength of nerve to declare myself; but at last the opportunity and the courage came together.

I was accepted.

She said that if I had great love her love might be measured by my own, and that if I did not think that I could love her always she would go away and end her days in grief.