"Not so, Rose. He is not of your world; and you would be wretched in
his world. He is thinking of a girl in the village. You have described
an ideal Antony. How, indeed, could you find out so much in twenty or
thirty minutes?"

"The soul sees straight and swift."

"But you do not see with your soul, Rose."

"Yes, I do. What I have said is true. I don't know how I know it is
true; but it is true. Father was saying last night that some people
have a sixth sense, and that by it they see things invisible--he was
referring to George Fox and Swedenborg--and then he began to wonder if
we had not once possessed seven senses; he thought there was inborn
assurance of it, because people quite unconsciously swear by their
seven senses. But five, or six, or seven, I am inclined to fall in
love with Antony Van Hoosen, with the whole of them."

"And Dick?"

"I had forgotten. Would you see him if you were me? or even write to
him?"

"_Have_ you written to him?"

Rose became scarlet and nervous. She could not tell a lie with that
bland innocence of aspect which some women acquire; she had even a
feeling of moral degradation, when she uttered the little word, "No."

"Then I would not write on any account. I feel sure your love for Dick
is only sentiment."

"Do you know anything about love or sentiment, Yanna? You did not care
whether Harry admired you or not. Harry felt your coldness; he thinks
nice women ought to be sentimental, and I can tell you, he is
accustomed to being thoroughly appreciated."

By this time it was growing dusk, and the three men were seen coming
together towards the house. They were walking slowly and talking
earnestly, and Yanna said:

"I wonder what subject interests them so much?"

"Politics or religion, I suppose; but whichever it is, they will utter
nonsense as soon as we are within hearing. Here comes Harry with a
laugh and a platitude!"

"Pardon us, Miss Van Hoosen; we quite forgot that time moved. Have you
been very impatient, Rose?"

"We have both felt hurt. If you had been talking to Yanna and me, you
would have been worrying about the horses, and about the steep roads,
and the night miasma, and lots of other things; in fact, you would
have had a bad, bad cough, by this time, Harry."

"I know it, Rose; and I beg you a thousand pardons. You must blame my
hosts. I never enjoyed talking so much before." Then he gave his hand
to Antony with a frankness that had something very confiding in