"There are plenty more."

"Don't you like roses?"

"Certainly. Who does not like roses?"

"Let me give you another. See, here is one that has the hue of your cheeks."

"I suppose a city pallor like Emily Warren's is more to your taste."

"I am wholly out of humor with the city, and I do not like that which is colorless and insipid. I think the rose I have just given you very beautiful."

"Thanks for your roundabout compliment," and she looked pleased.

"I suppose your quiet life gives you much time for reading?"

"I can't say that I enjoy father and mother's books."

"I doubt whether I would myself, but you have your own choice?"

"I read a story now and then; but time slips away; and I don't do much reading. We country girls make our own clothes, and you have no idea how much time it takes."

"Will you forgive me if I say that I think you make yours very prettily?"

Again she looked decidedly pleased; and, as if to reward me, she fastened the rose on her bosom. "If she would only keep still," I thought, "and I could simply look at her as at a draped statue, I could endure another half-hour; but every word she speaks is like the note of that catbird which broke the spell of harmony this morning. I have not yet seen a trace of ideality in her mind. Not a lovable trait have I discovered beyond her remarkable beauty, which mocks one with its broken promise. What is the controlling yet perverse principle of her life which makes her seem an alien in her own home? I am glad she does not use the plain language to me, since by nature she is not a Friend."

Miss Yocomb interrupted my thoughts by saying:

"I thought my dress would be much too simple and country-like for your taste. I can see myself that Emily Warren's dress has more style."

Resolving to explore a little, I said:

"I know a great many men in town."

"Indeed!" she queried, with kindling interest.

"Yes, and some of them are fine artists; and the majority have cultivated their tastes in various ways, both at home and abroad: but I do not think many of them have any respect for what you mean by 'style.' Shop-boys, clerks, and Fifth Avenue exquisites give their minds to the arbitrary mode of the hour; but the men in the city who amount to anything rarely know whether a lady's gown is of the latest cut. They do know, however, whether it is becoming and lady-like. The solid men of the city have a keen eye for beauty, and spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to enjoy its various phases. But half of the time they are anathematizing mere style. I have seen fashion transform a pretty girl into as near an approach to a kangaroo as nature permitted.

Now, I shall be so bold as to say that I think your costume this afternoon has far better qualities than mere style. It is becoming, and in keeping with the day and season, and I don't care a fig whether it is the style or not."

My "perfect flower of womanhood" grew radiant, and her lips parted in a smile of ineffable content. In bitter disappointment I saw that my artifice had succeeded, and that I had touched the key-note of her being. To my horror, she reminded me of a pleased, purring kitten that had been stroked in the right direction.

"Your judgment is hasty and harsh," I charged myself, in half-angry accusation, loth to believe the truth. "You do not know yet that a compliment to her dress is the most acceptable one that she can receive. She probably takes it as a tribute to her good taste, which is one of woman's chief prerogatives."

I resolved to explore farther, and continued:

"A lady's dress is like the binding of a book--it ought to be suggestive of her character. Indeed, she can make it a tasteful expression of herself. Our eye is often attracted or repelled by a book's binding. When it has been made with a fine taste, so that it harmonizes with the subject under consideration, we are justly pleased; but neither you nor I believe in the people who value books for the sake of their covers only. Beauty and richness of thought, treasures of varied truth, sparkling wit, droll humor, or downright earnestness are the qualities in books that hold our esteem. A book must have a soul and life of its own as truly as you or I; and the costliest materials, the wealth of a kingdom, cannot make a true book any more than a perfect costume and the most exquisite combination of flesh and blood can make a true woman." (I wondered if she were listening to me; for her face was taking on an absent look. Conscious that my homily was growing rather long, I concluded.) "The book that reveals something new, or puts old truths in new and interesting lights--the book that makes us wiser, that cheers, encourages, comforts, amuses, and makes a man forget his stupid, miserable self, is the book we tie to. And so a man might well wish himself knotted to a woman who could do as much for him, and he would naturally be pleased to have her outward garb correspond with her spiritual beauty and worth."

My fair ideal had also reached a momentous conclusion, for she said, with the emphasis of a final decision:

"I won't cut that dress after Emily Warren's pattern. I'll cut it to suit myself."

I had been falling from a seventh heaven of hope for some time, but at this moment I struck reality with a thump that almost made me sick and giddy. The expression of my face reminded her of the irrelevancy of her remark, and she blushed slightly, but laughed it off, saying:

"Pardon me, that I followed my own thoughts for a moment rather than yours. These matters, no doubt, seem mere trifles to you gentlemen, but they are weighty questions to us girls who have to make a little go a great way. Won't you, please, repeat what you said about that lady who wrote a book for the sake of its binding? I think it's a pretty idea."

I was so incensed that I answered as I should not have done. "She was remarkably successful. Every one looked at the binding, but were soon satisfied to look no farther."

I was both glad and vexed that she did not catch my meaning, for she said, with a smile:

"It would make a pretty ornament."

"It would not be to my taste," I replied briefly. "The beautiful binding would hold out the promise of a good book, which, not being fulfilled, would be tantalizing."

"Do you know the lady well?"

"Yes, I fear I do."

"How strangely you look at me!"

"Excuse me," I said, starting. "I fear I followed your example and was thinking of something else."

But I let what I was thinking about slip out.

"It was indeed a revelation. My thoughts will not interest you, I fear.

The experience of a man who saw a mirage in the desert came into my mind."

"I don't see what put that into your head."

"Nor do I, now. The world appears to me entirely matter-of-fact."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. Mother is always talking to me about spiritual meanings and all that. Now I agree with you. Things are just what they are. Some we like, and some we don't like. What more is there to say about them? I think people are very foolish if they bother themselves over things or people they don't like. I hope mother will take you to board, for I would like to have some one in the house who looks at things as I do."

"Thanks. Woman's intuition is indeed unerring."

"I declare, there comes Silas Jones with his new top-buggy. You won't mind his making one of our party, will you?"

"I think I will go to my room and rest awhile, and thus I shall not be that chief of this world's evils--the odious third party." And I rose decisively.

"I'd rather you wouldn't go," she said. "I don't care specially for him, and he does not talk half so nicely as you do. You needn't go on his account. Indeed, I like to have half a dozen gentlemen around me."

"You are delightfully frank."

"Yes, I usually say what I think."

"And do as you please," I added.

"Certainly. Why shouldn't I when I can? Don't you?"

"But I came from the wicked city." "So does Emily Warren."