did not touch.

And what about her lack of education? Was that a drawback? Not in the
least. The fact that she knew nothing of that traditional ignorance
which for ages has taken the name of knowledge--that record of the
foolish cosmogonies upon which have been built the philosophies and
the social systems of the blundering creature Man--the fact that she
knew nothing of these gave an especial piquancy to everything she
said. I had been trying to educate myself in the new and wonderful
cosmogony of growth which was first enunciated in the sixties, and
was going to be, as I firmly believed, the basis of a new philosophy,
a new system of ethics, a new poetry, a new everything. But in
knowledge of nature as a sublime consciousness, in knowledge of the
human heart, Sinfi was far more learned than I. And believing as I
did that education will in the twentieth century consist of
unlearning, of unlading the mind of the trash previously called
knowledge, I could not help feeling that Sinfi was far more advanced,
far more in harmony than I could hope to be With the new morning of
Life of which we are just beginning to see the streaks of dawn.

'I must go and see Fenella's portrait,' I said, as I Walked briskly
towards Raxton.

When I reached Raxton Hall I seemed to startle the butler and the
servants, as though I had come from the other world.

I told the butler that I should sleep there that night, and then went
at once to the picture gallery and stood before Reynolds' famous
picture of Fenella Stanley as the Sibyl. The likeness to Sinfi was
striking. How was it that it had not previously struck me more
forcibly? The painter had evidently seized the moment when Fenella's
eyes expressed that look of the seeress which Sinfi's eyes, on
occasion, so powerfully expressed. I stood motionless before it while
the rich, warm light of evening bathed it in a rosy radiance. And
when the twilight shadows fell upon it, and when the moon again lit
it up, I stood there still. The face seemed to pass into my very
being, and Sinfi's voice kept singing in my ears, 'Fenella Stanley's
dead and dust, and that's why she can make you put that cross in
your feyther's tomb, and she will, she will.'

I left the picture and went into the library: for I bethought me of
that sheaf of Fenella's letters to my great-grandfather which he had
kept so sacredly, and which had come to me as representative of the
family. My previous slight inspection of them h