as the
play diverted her, it did so at the expense of that strenuousness of
endeavor for extraordinary usefulness which her mind had taken under the
spell of Mrs. Frankland's speech.

"Didn't you like it?" said Millard, when they had reached the fresh air
of the street and disentangled themselves from the debouching crowd--a
noble pair to look upon as they walked thus in the late afternoon.

"Yes," said Phillida, spreading her parasol against the slant beams of
the declining sun, which illuminated the red brick walls and touched the
lofty cornices and the worn stones of the driveway with high lights,
while now this and now that distant window seemed to burn with ruddy
fire--"yes; I couldn't help enjoying Miss Terry's _Portia_. I am no
judge, but as a play I think it must have been good."

"Why do you say 'as a play'?" he asked. "What could it be but a play?"
He punctuated his question by tapping the pavement with his cane.

Phillida laughed a little at herself, but added with great seriousness:
"Would you think worse of me, Charley, if I should tell you that I don't
quite like plays?" And she looked up at him in a manner at once
affectionate and protesting.

Millard could not help giving her credit for the delicacy she showed in
her manner of differing from him.

"No," he said; "I couldn't but think the best of you in any case,
Phillida, but you might make me think worse of myself, you know, for I
do like plays. And more than that," he said, turning full upon her, "you
might succeed in making me think that you thought the worse of me, and
that would be the very worst of all."

This was said in a half-playful tone, but to Phillida it opened again
the painful vision of a possible drawing apart through a contrariety of
tastes. She therefore said no more in that direction, but contented
herself with some general criticisms on Irving's _Shylock_, the
incongruities in which she pointed out, and her criticisms, which were
tolerably acute, excited Millard's admiration; and it is not to be
expected that a lover's admiration should maintain any just proportion
to that which calls it forth.

Again the Thursday sermon at Mrs. Van Horne's came around, and again
Phillida was restored to a white heat of zeal mingled with a rueful
distrust of her own power to hold herself to the continuous pursuit of
her ideal. Millard, perceiving that she dreaded to be invited again,
refrained from offering to take her to the theater. He wait