In time, therefore, that idea, also, was abandoned; and with it, regretfully, the idea of enlightening the world at all.
Besides, I had just then (again if I remember rightfully) fallen in love.
Not that it was the first time.

Oh, no, not at eighteen, when at thirteen I had begun confidently and happily to look for it! What a sentimental little piece I was! How could they have been so patient with me--Father, Mother, everybody! I think the first real attack--the first that I consciously called love, myself--was the winter after we had all come back to Andersonville to live.

I was sixteen and in the high school.
It was Paul Mayhew--yes, the same Paul Mayhew that had defied his mother and sister and walked home with me one night and invited me to go for an automobile ride, only to be sent sharply about his business by my stern, inexorable Aunt Jane.

Paul was in the senior class now, and the handsomest, most admired boy in school.

He didn't care for girls.