he veil was rent.

To fit this existence of hers she had built herself a curious creed,
a philosophy of individualism, from behind which she flung strange
bombshells of theories, shafts of distorted moralities, personal
liberties, irresponsibilities, a supreme scorn for modern law and the
prophets. Nature, she claimed, was her law and her prophet.

In her hard-working, virginal life her theories had wrought no mischief.
Temptation had been lacking to exploit them, and even in the event of
the opportunity it was doubtful whether she would have had the strength
of her convictions. Men love theories, but seldom have the courage of
them, and Anna Gates was largely masculine. Women, being literal, are
apt to absorb dangerous doctrine and put it to the test. When it is
false doctrine they discover it too late.

Harmony was now a woman.

Anna would have cut off her hand sooner than have brought the girl to
harm; but she loved to generalize. It amused her to see Harmony's eyes
widen with horror at one of her radical beliefs. Nothing pleased
her more than to pit her individualism against the girl's rigid and
conventional morality, and down her by some apparently unanswerable
argument.

On the day after the incident in the kitchen such an argument took
place--hardly an argument, for Harmony knew nothing of mental fencing.
Anna had taken a heavy cold, and remained at home. Harmony had been
practicing, and at the end she played a little winter song by some
modern composer. It breathed all the purity of a white winter's day; it
was as chaste as ice and as cold; and yet throughout was the thought of
green things hiding beneath the snow and the hope of spring.

Harmony, having finished, voiced some such feeling. She was rather
ashamed of her thought.

"It seems that way to me," she finished apologetically. "It sounds
rather silly. I always think I can tell the sort of person who composes
certain things."

"And this gentleman who writes of winter?"

"I think he is very reserved. And that he has never loved any one."

"Indeed!"

"When there is any love in music, any heart, one always feels it,
exactly as in books--the difference between a love story and--and--"

"--a dictionary!"

"You always laugh," Harmony complained

"That's better than weeping. When I think of the rotten way things go in
this world I want to weep always."

"I don't find it a bad world. Of course there are bad people, but there
are good ones."