ttens on details, and she never
spares her hearers a single item."

"It is distinctly naughty of you," Christopher replied, with the smile
that was always ready for Elisabeth's feeblest sallies, "to draw the
good soul out for the express purpose of laughing at her. I am ashamed
of you, Miss Farringdon."

"Draw her out, my dear boy! You don't know what you are talking about.
The most elementary knowledge of Mrs. Herbert would teach you that she
requires nothing in the shape of drawing out. You have but to mention
the word 'dinner,' and the secret sins of her cook are retailed to you
in chronological order; you have but to whisper the word 'clothes,' and
the iniquities of her dressmaker's bill are laid bare before your eyes.
Should the conversation glance upon Mr. Herbert, his complete biography
becomes your own possession; and should the passing thought of childhood
appear above her mental horizon, she tells you all about her own
children as graphically as if she were editing a new edition of The
Pillars of the House. And yet you talk of drawing her out! I am afraid
you have no perceptions, Christopher."

"Possibly not; everybody doesn't have perceptions. I am frequently
struck with clever people's lack of them."

"Well, I'm off," replied Elisabeth, whipping up her pony, "to hear Mrs.
Herbert's outpourings on Felicia's happiness; when I come back I expect
I shall be able to write another poem on 'How does the water come down
at Lodore'--with a difference."

And Christopher--who had met her in the High Street--smiled after the
retreating figure in sheer delight at her. How fresh and bright and
spontaneous she was, he thought, and how charmingly ignorant of the
things which she prided herself upon understanding so profoundly! He
laughed aloud as he recalled how very wise Elisabeth considered herself.
And then he wondered if life would teach her to be less sure of her own
buoyant strength, and less certain of her ultimate success in everything
she undertook; and, if it did, he felt that he should have an ugly
account to settle with life. He was willing for Fate to knock him about
as much and as hardly as she pleased, provided she would let Elisabeth
alone, and allow the girl to go on believing in herself and enjoying
herself as she was so abundantly capable of doing. By this time
Christopher was enough of a philosopher to think that it did not really
matter much in the long run whether he were happy or unhappy; but he