ed to
exhibit, for gain or applause, emotions which a woman would naturally
lock up in her own heart, it was also a bitter protest against her own
lot. What was she to become, she asked? A dram-drinker of fictitious
sentiment? A Ten-minutes' Emotionalist? It was this last phrase that
flashed in a new light on her father's bewildered mind. He remembered it
instantly. So that was the source of inoperation?

"Oh, I see now," he said, with angry scorn. "You have learned your
lesson well. A 'Ten-minutes' Emotionalist:' I remember. I was wondering
who had put such stuff into your head."

She colored deeply, but said nothing.

"And so you are taking your notion, as to what sort of life you would
lead, from a Highland savage--a boor whose only occupations are eating
and drinking and killing wild animals. A fine guide, truly! He has had
so much experience in aesthetic matters! Or is it _metapheesics_ is his
hobby? And what, pray, is his notion as to what life should be? that the
noblest object of a man's ambition should be to kill a stag? It was a
mistake for Dante to let his work eat into his heart; he should have
devoted himself to shooting rabbits. And Raphael--don't you think he
would have improved his digestion by giving up pandering to the public
taste for pretty things, and taking to hunting wild-boars? that is the
theory, isn't it? Is that the _metapheesics_ you have learned?"

"You may talk about it," she said, rather humbly--for she knew very well
she could not stand against her father in argument, especially on a
subject that he rather prided himself on having mastered--"but you are
not a woman, and you don't know what a woman feels about such things."

"And since when have you made the discovery? What has happened to
convince you so suddenly that your professional life is a degradation?"

"Oh," she said, carelessly, "I was scarcely thinking of myself. Of
course I know what lies before me. It was about Carry I spoke to you."

"Carry shall decide for herself, as you did; and when she has done so, I
hope she won't come and blame me the first time she gets some ridiculous
idea into her head."

"Now, papa, that isn't fair," the eldest sister said, in a gentler
voice. "You know I never blamed you. I only showed you that even a
popular actress sometimes remembers that she is a woman. And if she is a
woman, you must let her have a grumble occasionally."

This conciliatory tone smoothed the matter down at once; and M