er father's voice, so thin and slow, with each syllable disjointed from
the other, rose like monotony itself.

"'There were tra-cea-able indeed, in those days, certain rudi-men-tary
at-tempts to f-u-s-e the classes....'"

It went on unwavering, neither rising high nor falling low, as though the
reader knew he had yet far to go, like a runner that brings great news
across mountains, plains, and rivers.

To Blanca that thin voice might have been the customary sighing of the
wind, her attention was so fast fixed on the girl, who sat following the
words down the pages with her pen's point.

Mr. Stone paused.

"Have you got the word 'insane'?" he asked.

The little model raised her face. "Yes, Mr. Stone."

"Strike it out."

With his eyes fixed on the trees he stood breathing audibly. The little
model moved her fingers, freeing them from cramp. Blanca's curious,
smiling scrutiny never left her, as though trying to fix an indelible
image on her mind. There was something terrifying in that stare, cruel
to herself, cruel to the girl.

"The precise word," said Mr. Stone, "eludes me. Leave a blank.
Follow!... 'Neither that sweet fraternal interest of man in man, nor a
curiosity in phenomena merely as phenomena....'" His voice pursued its
tenuous path through spaces, frozen by the calm eternal presence of his
beloved idea, which, like a golden moon, far and cold, presided
glamorously above the thin track of words. And still the girl's
pen-point traced his utterance across the pages: Mr. Stone paused again,
and looking at his daughter as though surprised to see her sitting there,
asked:

"Do you wish to speak to me, my dear?"

Blanca shook her head.

"Follow!" said Mr. Stone.

But the little model's glance had stolen round to meet the scrutiny fixed
on her.

A look passed across her face which seemed to say: 'What have I done to
you, that you should stare at me like this?'

Furtive and fascinated, her eyes remained fixed on Bianca, while her hand
moved, mechanically ticking the paragraphs. That silent duel of eyes
went on--the woman's fixed, cruel, smiling; the girl's uncertain,
resentful. Neither of them heard a word that Mr. Stone was reading.
They treated it as, from the beginning, Life has treated Philosophy--and
to the end will treat it.

Mr. Stone paused again, seeming to weigh his last sentences.

"That, I think," he murmured to himself, "is true." And suddenly he
addressed his daughter. "D