gift was the art of listening. He employed it now,
turning to her a glance steady and encouraging, concealing the anxiety
that gnawed at his mind, why he could not say. The natural priest is as
intuitive perhaps as the natural woman.

She took him into her confidence fully, concealing nothing. He learned
about their daily meetings, either at the Ruin, or if Farwell happened
to be absent, at Holiday Hill. She told him of their long automobile
rides together, while she was supposed to be off exercising some of the
horses; of the book he was beginning to write with her assistance; ("I
inspire it," she explained gravely); of his belief in her own future
career as a singer.

"He's going to help me, to introduce me to singers and teachers
and--impresarios, I think they're called. He's going to make mother send
me abroad to study, first. He says it's wicked to keep me shut up here
away from life. All artists have got to see a great deal of life, you
know, if they're to amount to anything. Oh, isn't it wonderful?" she
broke off, "that such a man as that should ever have noticed me at all?"

Philip, glancing at the radiant young face, did not find it altogether
wonderful.

"I suppose he makes love to you?" he asked.

She dimpled. "Of course! But in such a funny way, Phil. He doesn't seem
to mean to, or to want to, exactly. We read a good deal, and talk about
the world, and things like that, and sing--but all the time I know what
he's thinking about, and--and I'm thinking about it, too! We don't read
and sing and talk _all_ the time--" She clasped her hands ecstatically,
lines and all. "Oh, Phil darling, I wish you were in love, too! It's so
perfect.--But you will be some day, and then I hope," she added
quaintly, "that you'll have somebody as dear and comfortable as you are
to confide in. A spiritual pastor and master is so safe, too. You may
scold me, Reverend, and you may laugh at me--you're doing it now--but
you can never tell on me."

"No," he admitted, "I never can. But why not tell on yourself, dear? Why
so much mystery? Are you ashamed of being in love?"

He looked at her keenly. But though she hesitated, she met his eyes
without embarrassment. "I think I am, a little. Not ashamed, exactly,
but--shy. It's such a queer feeling, being in love. I never had it
before. It makes you want not to eat, or sleep, or play with the baby,
or do anything but just think of him; how he looked the last time you
saw him, what he s