oever these things be, it was true that Emilia's feet presently
crossed, and she was soon to be seen with her right elbow doubled against
her head as she leaned to the wall, and the little left fist stuck at her
belt. And I maintain that she had no sense at all of acting Spanish
prince disguised as page. Nor had she an idea that she was making her
friend Wilfrid's heart perform to her lightest words and actions, like
any trained milk-white steed in a circus. Sunlight, as well as Wilfrid's
braided cap, had some magical influence on her. He assured her that she
looked a charming boy, and she said, "Do I?" just lifting her chin.

A gardener was shaving the lawn.

"Please, spare those daisies," cried Emilia. "Why do you cut away
daisies?"

The gardener objected that he really must make the lawn smooth. Emilia
called to Adela, who came, and hearing the case, said: "Now this is nice
of you. I like you to love daisies and wish to protect them. They
disfigure a lawn, you know." And Adela stooped, and picked one, and
called it a pet name, and dropped it.

She returned to her sisters in the conservatory, and meeting Mr. Barren
at the door, made the incident a topic. "You know how greatly our Emilia
rejoices us when she shows sentiment, and our thirst is to direct her to
appreciate Nature in its humility as well as its grandeur."

"One expects her to have all poetical feelings," said Mr. Barrett, while
they walked forth to the lawn sloping to the tufted park grass.

Cornelia said: "You have read Mr. Runningbrook's story?"

"Yes."

But the man had not brought it back, and her name was in it, written with
her own hand.

"Are you of my opinion in the matter?"

"In the matter of the style? I am and I am not. Your condemnation may be
correct in itself; but you say, 'He coins words'; and he certainly forces
the phrase here and there, I must admit. The point to be considered is,
whether friction demands a perfectly smooth surface. Undoubtedly a
scientific work does, and a philosophical treatise should. When we ask
for facts simply, we feel the intrusion of a style. Of fiction it is
part. In the one case the classical robe, in the other any mediaeval
phantasy of clothing."

"Yes; true;" said Cornelia, hesitating over her argument. "Well, I must
conclude that I am not imaginative."

"On the contrary, permit me to say that you are. But your imagination is
unpractised, and asks to be fed with a spoon. We English are more
imagi