"Well, I'm glad to meet with one who thinks as I do," she said complacently, and plucking a half-blown rose that hung near her, she turned its petals sharply down as if they were plaits of a hem that she was about to stitch.
"Here is the first harmonic chord in the sweet congeniality of which I dreamed," I inwardly groaned; but I continued, "How is it that you like Zillah as your sister, and not as a little girl?"
"Oh, everybody likes their brothers and sisters after a fashion, but one doesn't care to be bothered with them when they are little. Besides, children rumple and spoil my dress," and she looked down at herself approvingly.
"Now, there's Emily Warren," continued my "embodiment of June." "Mother is beginning to hold her up to me as an example. Emily Warren is half the time doing things that she doesn't like, and I think she's very foolish. She is telling Zillah a story over there under that tree. I don't think one feels like telling stories right after dinner."
"Yes, but see how much Zillah enjoys the story."
"Oh, of course she enjoys it. Why shouldn't she, if it's a good one?"
"Is it not possible that Miss Warren finds a pleasure in giving pleasure?"
"Well, if she does, that is her way of having a good time."
"Don't you think it's a sweet, womanly way?"
"Ha, ha, ha! Are you already smitten with Emily Warren's sweet, womanly ways?"
I confess that I both blushed and frowned with annoyance and disappointment, but I answered lightly, "If I were, would I be one among many victims?"
"I'm sure I don't know," she replied, with her slight characteristic shrug, which also intimated that she didn't care.
"Miss Warren, I suppose, is a relative who is visiting you?"
"Oh, no, she is only a music teacher who is boarding with us. Mother usually takes two or three boarders through the summer months, that is if they are willing to put up with our ways."
"I suppose it's correct to quote Scripture on Sunday afternoon. I'm sure your mother's ways are those of pleasantness and peace. Do you think she would take me as a boarder?"
"I fear she'll think you would want too much city style."
"That is just what I wish to escape from."
"I think city style is splendid."
"Why?"
"Oh, the city is gay and full of life and people. I once took walks down Fifth Avenue when making a visit in town, and I would be perfectly happy if I could do so every day."
"Perfectly happy? I wish I knew of something that would make me perfectly happy. Pardon me, I am only a business man, and can't be expected to understand young ladies very well. I don't understand why walking down Fifth Avenue daily would make you happy."
"Of course not. A man can't understand a girl's feelings in such matters."
"There is nothing in New York so beautiful as this June day in the country."
"Yes, it's a nice day: but father says we need more rain dreadfully."
"You have spoiled your rose."
"There are plenty more."
"Don't you like roses?"
"Certainly. Who does not like roses?"
"Let me give you another. See, here is one that has the hue of your cheeks."
"I suppose a city pallor like Emily Warren's is more to your taste."
"I am wholly out of humor with the city, and I do not like that which is colorless and insipid. I think the rose I have just given you very beautiful."
"Thanks for your roundabout compliment," and she looked pleased.
"I suppose your quiet life gives you much time for reading?"
"I can't say that I enjoy father and mother's books."
"I doubt whether I would myself, but you have your own choice?"
"I read a story now and then; but time slips away; and I don't do much reading. We country girls make our own clothes, and you have no idea how much time it takes."
"Will you forgive me if I say that I think you make yours very prettily?"
Again she looked decidedly pleased; and, as if to reward me, she fastened the rose on her bosom. "If she would only keep still," I thought, "and I could simply look at her as at a draped statue, I could endure another half-hour; but every word she speaks is like the note of that catbird which broke the spell of harmony this morning. I have not yet seen a trace of ideality in her mind. Not a lovable trait have I discovered beyond her remarkable beauty, which mocks one with its broken promise. What is the controlling yet perverse principle of her life which makes her seem an alien in her own home? I am glad she does not use the plain language to me, since by nature she is not a Friend."
Miss Yocomb interrupted my thoughts by saying:
"I thought my dress would be much too simple and country-like for your taste. I can see myself that Emily Warren's dress has more style."
Resolving to explore a little, I said:
"I know a great many men in town."
"Indeed!" she queried, with kindling interest.
"Yes, and some of them are fine artists; and the majority have cultivated their tastes in various ways, both at home and abroad: but I do not think many of them have any respect for what you mean by 'style.' Shop-boys, clerks, and Fifth Avenue exquisites give their minds to the arbitrary mode of the hour; but the men in the city who amount to anything rarely know whether a lady's gown is of the latest cut. They do know, however, whether it is becoming and lady-like. The solid men of the city have a keen eye for beauty, and spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to enjoy its various phases. But half of the time they are anathematizing mere style. I have seen fashion transform a pretty girl into as near an approach to a kangaroo as nature permitted. Now, I shall be so bold as to say that I think your costume this afternoon has far better qualities than mere style. It is becoming, and in keeping with the day and season, and I don't care a fig whether it is the style or not."
My "perfect flower of womanhood" grew radiant, and her lips parted in a smile of ineffable content. In bitter disappointment I saw that my artifice had succeeded, and that I had touched the key-note of her being. To my horror, she reminded me of a pleased, purring kitten that had been stroked in the right direction.
"Your judgment is hasty and harsh," I charged myself, in half-angry accusation, loth to believe the truth. "You do not know yet that a compliment to her dress is the most acceptable one that she can receive. She probably takes it as a tribute to her good taste, which is one of woman's chief prerogatives."
I resolved to explore farther, and continued:
"A lady's dress is like the binding of a book—it ought to be suggestive of her character. Indeed, she can make it a tasteful expression of herself. Our eye is often attracted or repelled by a book's binding. When it has been made with a fine taste, so that it harmonizes with the subject under consideration, we are justly pleased; but neither you nor I believe in the people who value books for the sake of their covers only. Beauty and richness of thought, treasures of varied truth, sparkling wit, droll humor, or downright earnestness are the qualities in books that hold our esteem. A book must have a soul and life of its own as truly as you or I; and the costliest materials, the wealth of a kingdom, cannot make a true book any more than a perfect costume and the most exquisite combination of flesh and blood can make a true woman." (I wondered if she were listening to me; for her face was taking on an absent look. Conscious that my homily was growing rather long, I concluded.) "The book that reveals something new, or puts old truths in new and interesting lights—the book that makes us