I do think he ought not to come
with us, pappy."

"Very well; you can hint as much without being rude."

"I was thinking," said she, "of the Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin who were in
that Newcastle company, and who went to Aberdeen. Do you remember them,
pappy?"

"The low comedian, you mean?"

"Yes. Well, at all events they would be glad to see us. And so--don't
you think?--we could let Macleod understand that we were going to see
some friends in the North? Then he would not think of coming with us."

"The representation would scarcely be justifiable," observed Mr. White,
with a profound air, "in ordinary circumstances. But, as you say, it
would be neither for his comfort nor for yours that he should go with
us."

"Comfort!" she exclaimed. "Much comfort I have had since I came here!
Comfort I call quiet, and being let alone. Another fortnight at this
place would give me brain fever--your life continually in danger either
on the sea or by the cliffs--your feelings supposed to be always up at
passion pitch--it is all a whirl of secret or declared emotions that
don't give you a moment's rest. Oh, pappy, won't it be nice to have a
day or two's quiet in our own home, with Carry and Marie? And you know
Mr. Lemuel will be in town all the summer and winter. The material for
_his_ work he finds within himself. He doesn't need to scamper off like
the rest of them to hunt out picturesque peasants and studies of
waterfalls--trotting about the country with a note-book in hand--"

"Gerty, Gerty," said her father, with a smile, "your notions are
unformed on that subject. What have I told you often?--that the artist
is only a reporter. Whether he uses the pencil, or the pen, or his own
face and voice, to express the highest thoughts and emotions of which he
is conscious, he is only a reporter--a penny-a-liner whose words are
written in fire. And you--don't you carry your note-book too?"

"I was not comparing myself with an artist like Mr. Lemuel, pappy. No,
no. Of course I have to keep my eyes open, and pick up things that may
be useful. His work is the work of intense spiritual contemplation--it
is inspiration--"

"No doubt," the father said; "the inspiration of Botticelli."

"Papa!"

Mr. White chuckled to himself. He was not given to joking: an epigram
was not in consonance with his high sententiousness. But instantly he
resumed his solemn deportment.

"A picture is as much a part of the world as a human face: why should I
not