indeed a true woman!), and you can say you are
sorry you made so free with your own possessions, and you wish you had
done your duty better, and are eager to return and let Her Majesty hold
you captive. Your prototype always does, you know, and she is nearly
always pardoned, on condition that she never does anything of that kind
again."

Professor Theobald seemed too much concerned about the child, who was
still wailing, to pay much attention to any other topic. He turned to
retrace his steps.

"I think you make a mistake," said Hadria. "As soon as she sees you she
will want the watch, and then you will be placed between the awful
alternatives of voluntarily surrendering your freedom, and heartlessly
refusing to present yourself to her as a big plaything. In one respect
you have not yet achieved a thorough fidelity to your model; you don't
seem to enjoy sacrifice for its own sake. That will come with practice."

"I wish that child would leave off crying."

Hadria stopped in the road to laugh at the perturbed Professor.

"She will presently. That is only a cry of anger, not of distress. I
would not leave her, if it were. Yes; your vocation is clearly
allegorical. Feminine to your finger-tips, in this truly feminine
predicament. We are all--_nous autres femmes_--like the hero of the
_White Ship_, who is described by some delightful boy in an examination
paper as being 'melted by the shrieks of a near relation.'"

The Professor stumbled over a stone in the road, and looked back at it
vindictively.

"The near relation does so want to hold one's watch and to stuff it into
his mouth, and he shrieks so movingly if one brutally removes one's
property and person!"

"Alas! I am still a little bewildered by my late captivity. I can't see
the bearings of things."

"As allegory, you are as perfect as ever."

"I seem to be a sort of involuntary _Pilgrim's Progress_!" he exclaimed.

"Ah, indeed!" cried Hadria, "and how the symbolism of that old allegory
would fit this subject!"

"With me for wretched hero, I suppose!"

"Your archetype;--with a little adaptation--yes, and wonderfully
little--the Slough of Despond, Doubting Castle, the Valley of the Shadow
of Death--they all fall into place. Ah! the modern _Pilgrim's Progress_
would read strangely and significantly with woman as the pilgrim! But
the end--that would be a difficulty."

"One for your sex to solve," said the Professor.

When they arrived at the cottage t