tal type. She had a broad
forehead, straight auburn hair, a clear-cut mouth, whose sharp curves
gave it sweetness. Though her large frame indicated clearly an
Anglo-Saxon lineage, there was nothing of the sport about her. She had
never learned to skate or swim, but she could sit and watch the hills
all day long. Her clothes had an esthetic touch. Mingled with her
nervous determination there was a sentimental yearning. She was an
idealist, impelled by some controlling emotion which was the mainspring
of her life.

Little by little we became friends. Our common weariness brought us
often together after supper in a listless, confidential mood before the
parlour stove. We let the conversation drift inevitably toward the
strong current that was marking her with a touch of melancholy, like all
those of her type whose emotional natures are an enchanted mirror,
reflecting visions that have no place in reality. We talked about
blondes and brunettes, tall men and short men, our favourite man's name;
and gradually the impersonal became personal, the ideal took form. Her
voice, like a broken lute that might have given sweet sounds, related
the story. It was inevitable that she should love a dreamer like
herself. Nature had imbued her with a hopeless yearning. She slipped a
gold locket from a chain on her throat. It framed her hero's picture,
the source of her courage, the embodiment of her heroic energy: a man of
thirty, who had failed at everything; good-looking, refined, a personage
in real life who resembled the inhabitants of her enchanted mirror. In
the story she told there were stars and twilight, summer evenings,
walks, talks, hopes and vague projects. Any practical questions I felt
ready to ask would have sounded coarse. The little school-teacher with
shattered nerves embodied a hope that was more to her than meat and
drink and money. She was of those who do not live by bread alone.

Among the working population of Perry there are all manner of American
characteristics manifest. In a country where conditions change with
such rapidity that each generation is a revelation to the one which
preceded it, it is inevitable that the family and the State should be
secondary to the individual. We live with our own generation, with our
contemporaries. We substitute experience for tradition. Each generation
lives for itself during its prime. As soon as its powers begin to
decline it makes way with resignation for the next: "We have ha