s a shame that the change should
be forced prematurely by the efforts of this man Symes. Really I feel a
distinct sense of personal injury at his innovations." Van Lennop
laughed slightly. "The old way was the best way for a long time to come,
it seems to me. That was real democracy--a Utopian condition that had of
necessity to go with the town's growth, but certainly not at this stage.
In larger communities it is natural enough that those of similar tastes
should seek each other, but, in a place like Crowheart where the
interests and the mental calibre of its inhabitants are practically the
same, the man who seeks to establish an 'aristocracy' proclaims himself
a petty-minded, silly ass. Be a philosopher, Miss Tisdale."

But Essie Tisdale was not a philosopher; the experience was still too
new and bewildering for philosophy to prove an instant remedy. She found
Van Lennop's sympathy far more comforting than his logic, but through
her heavy-heartedness there was creeping a growing appreciation of the
superiority of this stranger in worn corduroys to his surroundings, a
clearer conception of his calm mental poise.

Van Lennop himself was a living contradiction of the fallacious
statement that all men are equal, and now, moved by her unhappiness, she
caught a glimpse of that lying beneath the impregnable reserve of a
polite and agreeable exterior which made the distinction. She realized
more strongly than before that he lived upon a different plane from that
of any man she ever had known.

"Do you know who I think must have been like you?" she asked him
unexpectedly.

He shook his head smilingly.

"I can't imagine."

"Robert Louis Stevenson."

He flushed a little.

"You surely flatter me; there is no one whom I admire more." He looked
at her in something of pleased surprise. "You read Stevenson--you like
him?"

Her face lighted with enthusiasm.

"So very, very much. He seems so wise and so--human. I have all that he
has written--his published letters, everything."

He continued to look at her oddly. Yes, Essie Tisdale was "different"
and somehow he was glad. The personal conversation had shown him
unexpected phases of her character. He saw beneath her youthful
unworldliness the latent ambitions, undeveloped, immature desires and
something of the underlying strength concealed by her ordinarily
light-hearted exuberance. While the readjustment of Crowheart's social
affairs was hurting her on the raw he saw the