ying her delicate little
hands, interlacing her taper, ivory fingers--but Philip knew she did not
see them--and then looked up in his face again and said:

"I'll tell you. This morning as we came up I was talking all the way
with your cousin. It took some time to break the ice, but gradually she
began to say things, half stories, half poetic, not out of books; things
that, if said with assurance, in the city would be called wit. And
then I began to see her emotional side, her pure imagination, such a
refinement of appreciation and justice--I think there is an immovable
basis of justice in her nature--and charity, and I think she'd be
heroic, with all her gentleness, if occasion offered."

"I see," said Philip, rather lightly, "that you improved your time in
finding out what a rare creature Alice is. But," and this more gravely,
"it would surprise her that you have found it out."

"I believe you. I fancy she has not the least idea what her qualities
are, or her capacities of doing or of suffering, and the world will
never know--that is the point-unless some genius comes along and reveals
them."

"How?"

"Why, through a tragedy, a drama, a story, in which she acts out her
whole self. Some act it out in society. She never will. Such sweetness
and strength and passion--yes, I have no doubt, passion under all the
reserve! I feel it but I cannot describe it; I haven't imagination to
make you see what I feel."

"You come very near it," said Philip, with a smile. And after a moment
the girl broke out again:

"Materials! You writers go searching all round for materials, just as
painters do, fit for your genius."

"But don't you know that the hardest thing to do is the obvious, the
thing close to you?"

"I dare say. But you won't mind? It is just an illustration. I went the
other day with mother to Alice's house. She was so sort of distant and
reserved that I couldn't know her in the least as I know her now. And
there was the rigid Puritan, her father, representing the Old Testament;
and her placid mother, with all the spirit of the New Testament; and
then that dear old maiden aunt, representing I don't know what, maybe
a blind attempt through nature and art to escape out of Puritanism; and
the typical old frame farmhouse--why, here is material for the sweetest,
most pathetic idyl. Yes, the Story of Alice. In another generation
people would come long distances to see the valley where Alice lived,
and her spirit would