A spunky fellow,--that's the thing to love. But a dead man,--pah, what a foolery! _Katrina_. O yes, to you; for Love's a game for you. 'Twill turn out dangerous maybe, but still,--a game. _Jean_. Yes, the best kind of game a girl can play, And all the better for the risk, Katrina. But where the fun would be in Love if he You played with had not heart to jump, nor blood To tingle, nothing in him to go wild At seeing you betray your love for him, Beats me to understand. You'ld be as wise Blowing the bellows at a pile of stone As loving one that never lived for you. It isn't just to make a wind you blow, But to turn red fire into white quivering heat. Whatever she's after, 'tis not love, my girl: I know what love is. But perhaps she saw The poor lad living? Even had speech with him? _Katrina_. Not she; Mary has never known a lad I did not know as well. We've shared our lives As if we had been sisters, and I'm sure She's never been in love before. _Jean_. Before? Don't talk such sentimental nonsense-- _Katrina_. Why, If Love-at-first-sight can mean anything, Surely 'tis this: there's some one in the world Whom, if you come across him, you must love, And you could no more pass his face unmoved Than the year could go backwards. Well, suppose He dies just ere you meet him; and he dead, Ay, or his head alone, is given your eyes, It is enough: he is the man for you, All as if he were quick and signalling His heart to you in smiles. _Jean_. Believe me, dear, You've no more notion of the thing called Love Than a grig has of talking. But I have, And I'm off now to practise with my notions.