Mr. Dillwyn, as I said, did not come near Shampuashuh. He took his
indemnification in sending all sorts of pleasant things. Papers and
magazines overflowed, flowed over into Mrs. Marx's hands, and made her
life rich; flowed over again into Mr. Hotchkiss's hands, and
embroidered his life for him. Mr. Dillwyn sent fruit; foreign fruit,
strange and delicious, which it was a sort of education even to eat,
bringing one nearer to the countries so far and unknown, where it grew.
He sent music; and if some of it passed under Lois's ban as "nonsense,"
that was not the case with the greater part. "She has a marvellous true
appreciation of what is fine," Mrs. Barclay wrote; "and she rejects
with an accuracy which surprises me, all that is merely pretty and
flashy. There are some bits of Handel that have great power over the
girl; she listens to them, I might almost say, devoutly, and is never
weary. Madge is delighted with Rossini; but Lois gives her adherence to
the German classics, and when I play Haydn or Mozart or Mendelssohn,
stands rapt in her delighted listening, and looking like--well, I will
not tantalize you by trying to describe to you what I see every day. I
marvel only where the girl got these tastes and susceptibilities; it
must be blood; I believe in inheritance. She has had until now no
training or experience; but your bird is growing her wings fast now,
Philip. If you can manage to cage her! Natures hereabout are not tame,
by any means."

Mr. Dillwyn, I believe I mentioned, sent engravings and exquisite
photographs; and these almost rivalled Haydn and Mozart in Lois's mind.
For various reasons, Mrs. Barclay sought to make at least this source
of pleasure common to the whole family; and would often invite them all
into her room, or carry her portfolio out into their general
sitting-room, and display to the eyes of them all the views of foreign
lands; cities, castles and ruins, palaces and temples, Swiss mountains
and Scotch lochs, Paris Boulevards and Venetian canals, together with
remains of ancient art and works of modern artists; of all which Philip
sent an unbounded number and variety. These evenings were unendingly
curious to Mrs. Barclay. Comment was free, and undoubtedly original,
whatever else might be said of it; and character, and the habit of life
of her audience, were unconsciously revealed to her. Intense curiosity
and eagerness for information were observable in them all; but tastes,
and the p