"But is s.e.x nothing? Shall we recognize No bounds that Nature clearly has defined, Saying, with no uncertain tone, to one, Do this, and to the other, Do thou that?

The rearing of young children and the care Of households,--can we doubt where these belong?

Woman is but the complement of man And not a monstrous contrariety.

Co-worker she, but no compet.i.tor!"

"All true, and no one doubts it! But why doubt That perfect freedom is the best condition For bringing out all that is best in woman As well as man? Free culture, free occasion, Higher responsibility, will make A higher type of femininity, Ay, of maternal femininity,-- Not derogate from that which now we have, And which, through laws and limitations old, Is artificial, morbid, and distort, Except where Nature works in spite of all.

'Woman is but the complement of man!'

Granted. But why stop there? And why not add, Man, too, is but the complement of woman?

And both are free! And Nature never meant, For either, harder rule than that of Love, Intelligent, and willing as the sun."

"Ah! were men angels, women something more, Your plan might work; but now, in married life, _One_ must be absolute; and who can doubt That Nature points unerringly to man?"

"Then Nature's pointing is not always heeded.

Marriage should be a partnership of equals: But now the theory would seem to be, Man's laws must keep the weaker s.e.x in order!

Man must do all the thinking, even for woman!

I don't believe it; woman, too, can think, Give her the training and the means of knowledge.

'O no!' cries man, 'the household and the child Must claim her energies; and all her training Must be to qualify the wife and mother: For one force loses when another gains, Since Nature is a very strict accountant; And what you give the thinker or the artist, You borrow from the mother and the wife.'

With equal truth, why not object to man That what he gives the judge or politician He borrows from the husband and the father?

The wife and mother best are qualified When you allow the woman breadth of culture, Give her an interest in all that makes The human being's welfare, and a voice In laws affecting her for good or ill.

To 'suckle fools and chronicle small beer'

Is not the whole intent of womanhood.

Even of maternity 'tis not the height To produce many children, but to have Such as may be a blessing to their kind.

Let it be woman's pure prerogative, Free and unswayed by man's imperious pleasure (Which now too often is her only law), To rule herself by her own highest instincts, As her own sense of duty may approve,-- Holding that law for her as paramount Which may best harmonize her whole of nature, Educe her individuality, Not by evading or profaning Nature,[8]

But by a self-development entire."

"Enough, enough! Let us split hairs no longer!

You hold a crumpled letter in your hand; You know the writer; you esteem, respect him; And you've had time to question your own heart.

What does it say? You blush,--you hesitate,-- That's a good symptom. Now just hear me out: If culture is your aim, how opportune A chance is this! Affluence, leisure, study!

Would you help others? He will help you do it.

Is health an object? Soon, exempt from care, Or cheered by travel, shall you see restored Your early bloom and freshness. Would you find In love a new and higher life? You start!

Now what's the matter? Do not be a fool,-- A sentimentalist, forever groping After the unattainable, the cloudy.

Come, be a little practical; consider Your present state: look on that row of nails Recipient of your wardrobe; see that bonnet, All out of fashion by at least a month; That rusty water-proof you call a cloak; Those boots with the uneven heels; that pair Of woollen gloves; this whole absurd array, Where watchful Neatness battles Poverty, But does not win the victory. Look there!

Would not a house on the great avenue Be better than these beggarly surroundings?

Since you're heart-free, why not at once say Yes?"

"Sweet fluent tempter, there you hit the mark!

Heart-free am I, and 'tis because of that You're not entirely irresistible.

Your plea is simply that which lends excuse To the poor cyprian whom we pa.s.s in scorn.

I've done my utmost to persuade myself That I might love this man,--in time might love: But all my arguments, enforced by yours, Do not persuade me. I must give it up!"

Never was No administered more gently Or more decisively than in her answer To the proposal in the crumpled letter.

Musing before a picture Linda sat.

"In my poor little range of art," thought she, "I feel an expert's confidence; I know These things are unexcelled; and yet why is it They do not bring their value? Come, I'll try Something more difficult,--put all my skill, Knowledge, and work into one little piece."

Bravely she strove: it was a simple scene, But with accessories as yet untried, And done in oil with microscopic care; An open window with a distant landscape, And on the window-sill a vase of flowers.

It was a triumph, and she knew it was.

"Come, little housekeeper," she said to Rachel, "We'll go and seek our fortune." So she put Under her arm the picture, and they went To show it to the dealer who had bought Most of her works. But on her way she met A clerk of the establishment, who said: "Come into Taylor's here and take an ice; I'd like to tell you something for your good."

When they all three were seated, Brown began: "You may not see me at the store again; For a ship's cousin wants my place, and so, With little ceremony, I'm dismissed.

Now, if you've no objection, tell me what The old man gave you for that composition In which a bird--a humming-bird, I think-- Follows a child who has a bunch of flowers."

"Yes, I remember. Well, 'twas fifteen dollars."

"Whew! He said fifty. Is it possible?

You've seen the chromo copy, I suppose?"

"The chromo? I've seen nothing of a chromo.

Never has my consent been given to publish!"

"That's little to the purpose, it would seem.

A hundred thousand copies have been sold Of all your pieces, first and last. You stare?"

A light broke in on Linda. All at once The mystery that hung upon her strivings Lay solved; the cloud was lifted; and she saw That all this while she had not weighed her talents In a false balance; had not been the dupe Of her own aspirations and desires.

With eyes elate and hope up-springing fresh In her glad heart, she cried, "And are you sure?"

"'Tis easily confirmed. Go ask the printer; Only my number is below the mark."

From Brown, then, Linda got particulars, Showing 'twas not a random utterance.

"'Tis strange," she said, "that I've not seen the chromos At the shop windows."--"Only recently,"

Said he, "have they been sold here in the city; The market has been chiefly at the West.

The old man thought it policy, perhaps, To do it on the sly, lest you should know.

Well, well, in that bald head of his he has A mine!" Then Linda struck the bell, and said: "This is my entertainment, Mr. Brown; Please let me pay for it." And Brown's "O no"

Was not so wholly irresistible That Linda did not have her way in this.

They parted.

"Why, Miss Percival," said Rachel, "You look precisely as you did that day You fired the pistol in the woods,--you do!

I watched your eye, and knew you would not fail."

"'Tis to bring down a different sort of game, We now go forth."--"But you forget your pistol."

"This time we shall not need one. Did I not Say we were going forth to seek our fortune?

Well, Rachel, my dear child, we've found it,--found it."

"O, I'm so glad! (How rapidly you walk!) And shall we have the old piano back?"

"Ay, that we shall! And you shall go to-morrow And take a present to the poor blind aunt And her old mother,--for they love you well."

"A present! Why, Miss Percival, there's nothing I do so love to do as to make presents.

I've made three in my lifetime; one a ring Of tortoise-sh.e.l.l; and one--"

But here they entered A picture-store. A man who stood alert, With thumbs hooked in the arm-holes of his vest, Advanced to welcome her. The "old man" he, Of Brown's narration; not so very old, However; not quite thirty-five, in fact.

The capital which made his note so good Was a bald head; a head you could not question; A head which was a pledge of solvency, A warrant of respectability!

The scalp all glossy; tufts above the ears!

This head he cultivated carefully, And always took his hat off when he went To ask a discount or to clinch a bargain.

"Ah! my young friend, Miss Percival," he cried, "You've something choice there, if I'm not mistaken."

Linda took off the wrapper from her picture And showed it.

An expression of surprise Came to the "old man's" features; but he hid it By making of his hand a cylinder And looking through it, like a connoisseur.

These were his exclamations: "Clever! Ay!

Style somewhat new; landscape a shade too bright; The sky too blue, eh? Still a clever picture,-- One of your best. Shall we say twenty dollars?"

Taking the picture, Linda said, "Good morning!

I'm in a hurry now, and you'll excuse me."

"Will you not leave it?"--"No, I'm not disposed To part with it at present."--"Thirty dollars Would be a high price for it, but to aid you I'll call it thirty."--"Could you not say fifty?"

"You're joking with me now, Miss Percival."

"Then we will end our pleasantry. Good by."

"Stay! You want money: I shall be ashamed To let my partners know it, but to show How far I'll go for your encouragement-- Come! I'll say fifty dollars."

The "old man"