her special costume for the
boat and for the woods. She would climb the rugged old hemlocks now and
then for the sake of a wide outlook, or to peep into the large nest where
a hawk, or it may be an eagle, was raising her little brood of
air-pirates.

There were those who spoke of her wanderings in lonely places as an
unsafe exposure. One sometimes met doubtful characters about the
neighborhood, and stories were--told of occurrences which might well
frighten a young girl, and make her cautious of trusting herself alone in
the wild solitudes which surrounded the little village.. Those who knew
Euthymia thought her quite equal to taking care of herself. Her very
look was enough to ensure the respect of any vagabond who might cross her
path, and if matters came to the worst she would prove as dangerous as a
panther.

But it was a pity to associate this class of thoughts with a noble
specimen of true womanhood. Health, beauty, strength, were fine
qualities, and in all these she was rich. She enjoyed all her natural
gifts, and thought little about them. Unwillingly, but over-persuaded by
some of her friends, she had allowed her arm and hand to be modelled.
The artists who saw the cast wondered if it would be possible to get the
bust of the maiden from whom it was taken. Nobody would have dared to
suggest such an idea to her except Lurida. For Lurida sex was a trifling
accident, to be disregarded not only in the interests of humanity, but
for the sake of art.

"It is a shame," she said to Euthymia, "that you will not let your
exquisitely moulded form be perpetuated in marble. You have no right to
withhold such a model from the contemplation of your fellow-creatures.
Think how rare it is to see a woman who truly represents the divine idea!
You belong to your race, and not to yourself,--at least, your beauty is a
gift not to be considered as a piece of private property. Look at the
so-called Venus of Milo. Do you suppose the noble woman who was the
original of that divinely chaste statue felt any scruple about allowing
the sculptor to reproduce her pure, unblemished perfections?"

Euthymia was always patient with her imaginative friend. She listened to
her eloquent discourse, but she could not help blushing, used as she was
to Lurida's audacities. "The Terror's" brain had run away with a large
share of the blood which ought to have gone to the nourishment of her
general system. She could not help admiring, almost worshippin