s of those savages made me squirm. And I don't believe
there was much more romance about the early settlers than about their
descendants. Isn't it true, Mr. Burnett, that you must have a human
element to make any country interesting?"

Philip glanced at Evelyn, whose bright face was kindled with interest
in the discussion, and thought, "Good heavens! if there is not human
interest here, I don't know where to look for it," but he only said:

"Doubtless."

"And why don't you writers do something about it? It is literature that
does it, either in Scotland or Judea."

"Well," said Philip, stoutly, "they are doing something. I could name
half a dozen localities, even sections of country, that travelers visit
with curiosity just because authors have thrown that glamour over them.
But it is hard to create something out of nothing. It needs time."

"And genius," Miss McDonald interjected.

"Of course, but it took time to transform a Highland sheep-stealer into
a romantic personage."

Miss McDonald laughed. "That is true. Take a modern instance. Suppose
Evangeline had lived in this valley! Or some simple Gretchen about whose
simple story all the world is in sympathy!"

"Or," thought Philip, "some Evelyn." But he replied, looking at Evelyn,
"I believe that any American community usually resents being made the
scene of a romance, especially if it is localized by any approach to
reality."

"Isn't that the fault mostly of the writer, who vulgarizes his
material?"

"The realists say no. They say that people dislike to see themselves as
they are."

"Very likely," said Miss McDonald; "no one sees himself as others see
him, and probably the poet who expressed the desire to do so was simply
attitudinizing.--[Robert Burns: 'O wha gift the Giftie gie us; to see
o'rselves as others see us.' Ed.]--By the way, Mr. Burnett, you know
there is one place of sentiment, religious to be sure, not far from
here. I hope we can go some day to see the home of the 'Mountain
Miller.'"

"Yes, I know the place. It is beyond the river, up that steep road
running into the sky, in the next adjoining hill town. I doubt if you
find any one there who lays it much to heart. But you can see the mill."

"What is the Mountain Miller?" asked Evelyn.

"A tract that, when I was a girl," answered Miss McDonald, "used to be
bound up with 'The Dairyman's Daughter' and 'The Shepherd of Salisbury
Plain.' It was the first thing that interested me in New Engl