soon seemed to take in who she was,
and stood regarding her a minute without speaking. His attitude towards
his daughters was rather like that of an old drake towards two
swans whom he has inadvertently begotten--there was inquiry in it,
disapproval, admiration, and faint surprise.

"Why has she not come?" he said.

Bianca winced behind her veil. "Have you asked Hilary?"

"I cannot find him," answered Mr. Stone. Something about his patient
stooping figure and white head, on which the sunlight was falling, made
Bianca slip her hand through his arm.

"Come in, Dad. I'll do your copying."

Mr. Stone looked at her intently, and shook his head.

"It would be against my principles; I cannot take an unpaid service.
But if you would come, my dear, I should like to read to you. It is
stimulating."

At that request Bianca's eyes grew dim. Pressing Mr. Stone's shaggy arm
against her breast, she moved with him towards the house.

"I think I may have written something that will interest you," Mr. Stone
said, as they went along.

"I am sure you have," Bianca murmured.

"It is universal," said Mr. Stone; "it concerns birth. Sit at the table.
I will begin, as usual, where I left off yesterday."

Bianca took the little model's seat, resting her chin on her hand, as
motionless as any of the statues she had just been viewing. It almost
seemed as if Mr. Stone were feeling nervous. He twice arranged his
papers; cleared his throat; then, lifting a sheet suddenly, took three
steps, turned his back on her, and began to read.

"'In that slow, incessant change of form to form, called Life, men, made
spasmodic by perpetual action, had seized on a certain moment, no more
intrinsically notable than any other moment, and had called it Birth.
This habit of honouring one single instant of the universal process to
the disadvantage of all the other instants had done more, perhaps, than
anything to obfuscate the crystal clearness of the fundamental flux.
As well might such as watch the process of the green, unfolding earth,
emerging from the brumous arms of winter, isolate a single day and call
it Spring. In the tides of rhythm by which the change of form to form
was governed'"--Mr. Stone's voice, which had till then been but a
thin, husky murmur, gradually grew louder and louder, as though he were
addressing a great concourse--"'the golden universal haze in which men
should have flown like bright wing-beats round the sun gave place to the