o a window, as if I had said
something to disturb him. After a little he came back again with the air
of a man who had flung aside some unpleasant burden, and began to talk
of the country we were in.

"'What a calm, delicious climate it is,' he said, 'I wonder people can
get angry or very much in earnest here. For myself this country life
seems like floating at will on some lake, with scarcely air enough to
stir a sail, or ripple foam wreaths around the prow of one's boat; the
very breath we draw is a luxury.'

"'A sad one sometimes,' I answered, 'the very solitude and repose which
steal over one, enfeebles the spirit and makes life too harmonious for
improvement either of the mind or heart. Continued life in a place like
this, would rob an American of his last attribute,--a love of
progression. Rest and sensuous enjoyment were not intended for a people
like us. Yet the place is so lovely, I feel like a traitor while saying
this.'

"He looked at me with unconscious earnestness, sighed gently and paced
the room once or twice before he resumed the subject.

"'You are right; a soul worth having would never content itself with the
drowsy sweetness of a life like this. After all, the great glory of
existence lies in action.'

"'And the greatest happiness;' I answered, with a dreamy sense of the
inaction to which I, as a woman, was forever consigned.

"'You speak with the feeling of a man, shut out from his proper career,'
he said, 'there, I think you and I can have sympathy; only the life of a
woman should be restful, and full of love.'

"'And I of a man?' I questioned.

"'You must not ask that question of a man shut out from action, and--and
even from the woman's privilege of loving.'

"What was there in my expression that changed his so instantly? Could he
discover in my eyes the brightness that had come over me with the sound
of his voice, tender and impressive as it had been that day among the
water lilies? I do not know, but in a moment a cloud crept over his
face, and a chill into his voice.

"'Excuse me, if I have pressed you over much,' he said. 'But it is a
lovely day and the procession will be well worth seeing. If it would not
be considered sacrilegious among so many good Catholics, I should say,
there would be a rivalry among the Madonnas. You will go?'

"'Yes,' I answered, sinking into depression again, 'as well there as
here. Who will be of our party?'

"'Oh, the General, and my mother, of course