hology, my
dear," she said. "I know nothing about them, although we have a professor
who does. Think over what I've said about coming to Silliston. It will do
you good--you are working too hard here. I know you would enjoy
Silliston. And Brooks takes such an interest in you," she added
impulsively. "It is quite a compliment."

"But why?" Janet demanded, bewildered.

"Perhaps it's because you have--possibilities. You may be typewriting his
manuscripts. And then, I am a widow, and often rather lonely--you could
come in and read to me occasionally."

"But--I've never read anything."

"How fortunate!" said Insall, who had entered the doorway in time to hear
Janet's exclamation. "More than half of modern culture depends on what
one shouldn't read."

Mrs. Maturin laughed. But Insall waved his hand deprecatingly.

"That isn't my own," he confessed. "I cribbed it from a clever
Englishman. But I believe it's true."

"I think I'll adopt her," said Mrs. Maturin to Insall, when she had
repeated to him the conversation. "I know you are always convicting me of
enthusiasms, Brooks, and I suppose I do get enthusiastic."

"Well, you adopt her--and I'll marry her," replied Insall, with a smile,
as he cut the string from the last bundle of clothing.

"You might do worse. It would be a joke if you did--!"

His friend paused to consider this preposterous possibility. "One never
can tell whom a man like you, an artist, will marry."

"We've no business to marry at all," said Insall, laughing. "I often
wonder where that romantic streak will land you, Augusta. But you do have
a delightful time!"

"Don't begrudge it me, it makes life so much more interesting," Mrs.
Maturin begged, returning his smile. "I haven't the faintest idea that
you will marry her or any one else. But I insist on saying she's your
type--she's the kind of a person artists do dig up and marry--only better
than most of them, far better."

"Dig up?" said Insall.

"Well, you know I'm not a snob--I only mean that she seems to be one of
the surprising anomalies that sometimes occur in--what shall I say?--in
the working-classes. I do feel like a snob when I say that. But what is
it? Where does that spark come from? Is it in our modern air, that
discontent, that desire, that thrusting forth toward a new light
--something as yet unformulated, but which we all feel, even at small
institutions of learning like Silliston?"

"Now you're getting beyond me."

"Oh no,