love you with
as true an affection as ever man gave to woman; but I have not for you a
lover's love. I cannot tell why, for you are one of the fairest of fair
women."

"Fair, but not your 'ideal woman,'" she said, gently.

"No, not my 'ideal woman,'" he returned; "my sister, my friend--not my
love."

"I am to blame," she said, proudly; "but again I must plead that I am
like Priscilla. While you are pleading the cause of another, the truth
came uppermost; you must forgive me for speaking so forcibly. As the
poem says:

"'There are moments in life when the heart is so full of emotions
That if, by chance, it be shaken, or into its depths, like a pebble,
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.'"

"My dearest Philippa, you have not been to blame," he said; "you judge
yourself so hardly always."

"It is the fate of a woman to be silent," she said again. "Still, I am
glad that I have spoken. Norman, will you tell me what your ideal of
woman is like, that I may know her when I see her?"

"Nay," he objected, gently, "let us talk of something else."

But she persisted.

"Tell me," she urged, "that I may know in what she differs from me."

"I do not know that I can tell you," he replied. "I have not thought
much of the matter."

"But if any one asked you to describe your ideal of what a woman should
be, you could do it," she pursued.

"Perhaps so, but at best it would be but an imperfect sketch. She must
be young, fair, gentle, pure, tender of heart, noble in soul, with a
kind of shy, sweet grace; frank, yet not outspoken; free from all
affectation, yet with nothing unwomanly; a mixture of child and woman.
If I love an ideal, it is something like that."

"And she must be fair, like all the ladies Arleigh, with eyes like the
hyacinth, and hair tinged with gold, I suppose, Norman?"

"Yes; I saw a picture once in Borne that realized my notion of true
womanly loveliness. It was a very fair face, with something of the
innocent wonder of a child mixed with the dawning love and passion of
noblest womanhood."

"You admire an _ingenue_. We have both our tastes; mine, if I were a
man, would incline more to the brilliant and handsome."

She would have added more, but at that moment Lady Peters drew aside the
silken hanging.

"My dear children," she said, "I should ill play my part of chaperon if
I did not remind you of the