n't like clever women."

"A woman must try to be _something_." Honoria felt that this was
vague, but wanted to argue.

"A woman wants to be loved," said Mrs. Raymond thoughtfully.
"There's such a heap to be done about the house that she won't find
time for much else. Besides, if she has children, she'll be planning
for them."

"Isn't that rather slow?"

Humility wondered where the child had picked up the word.
"Slow?" she echoed, with her eyes on the horizon beyond the dunes.
"Most things are slow when you look forward to them."

"But these fairy-tales of yours?"

"I'll tell you about them. When my mother was a girl of sixteen she
went into service as a nursemaid in a clergyman's family.
Every evening the clergyman used to come into the nursery and tell
the children a fairy-tale. That's how it started. My mother left
service to marry a farmer--it was quite a grand match for her--and
when I was a baby she told the stories to me. She has a wonderful
memory still, and she tells them capitally. When I listen I believe
every word of them; I like them better than books, too, because they
always end happily. But I can't repeat them a bit. As soon as I
begin they fall to pieces, and the pieces get mixed up, and, worst of
all, the life goes right out of them. But Taffy, he takes the pieces
and puts them together, and the tale is better than ever: quite
different, and new, too. That's the puzzle. It's not memory with
him; it's something else."

"But don't you ever make up a story of your own?" Honoria insisted.

Now you might talk with Mrs. Raymond for ten minutes, perhaps, and
think her a simpleton; and then suddenly a cloud (as it were) parted,
and you found yourself gazing into depths of clear and beautiful
wisdom.

She turned on Honoria with a shy, adorable smile: "Why, of course I
do--about Taffy. Come in and let me show you his room and his
books."

An hour later, when Taffy returned, he found Honoria seated at the
table and his mother pouring tea. They said nothing about their
visit to his room; and though they had handled every one of his
treasures, he never discovered it. But he did notice--or rather, he
felt--that the two understood each other. They did; and it was an
understanding he would never be able to share, though he lived to be
a hundred.

Mr. Raymond came out from his study and drank his tea in silence.
Honoria observed that he blinked a good deal. He showed no surprise
at her