ity life; and an unpremeditated attitude toward these
learned ones, high priests of the muses she had so long ignorantly
worshipped, accounted perhaps for a great deal in their attitude toward
her. Her fervour, repressed yet palpable, was like a flame burning before
their altars--a flattery to which the learned, being human, are quick to
respond. Besides, something of her history was known, and she was of a
type to incite a certain amount of interest amongst these discerning
ones. Often, after she had taken their dictation, or brought their
manuscripts home, they detained her in conversation. In short, Silliston
gave its approval to this particular experiment of Augusta Maturin. As
for Mrs. Maturin herself, her feeling was one of controlled pride not
unmixed with concern, always conscious as she was of the hidden element
of tragedy in the play she had so lovingly staged. Not that she had any
compunction in keeping Janet's secret, even from Insall; but sometimes as
she contemplated it the strings of her heart grew tight. Silliston was so
obviously where Janet belonged, she could not bear the thought of the
girl going out again from this sheltered spot into a chaotic world of
smoke and struggle.

Janet's own feelings were a medley. It was not, of course, contentment
she knew continually, nor even peace, although there were moments when
these stole over her. There were moments, despite her incredible good
fortune, of apprehension when she shrank from the future, when fear
assailed her; moments of intense sadness at the thought of leaving her
friends, of leaving this enchanted place now that miraculously she had
found it; moments of stimulation, of exaltation, when she forgot. Her
prevailing sense, as she found herself again, was of thankfulness and
gratitude, of determination to take advantage of, to drink in all of this
wonderful experience, lest any precious memory be lost.

Like a jewel gleaming with many facets, each sunny day was stored and
treasured. As she went from Mrs. Case's boarding-house forth to her work,
the sweet, sharp air of these spring mornings was filled with delicious
smells of new things, of new flowers and new grass and tender, new leaves
of myriad shades, bronze and crimson, fuzzy white, primrose, and emerald
green. And sometimes it seemed as though the pink and white clouds of the
little orchards were wafted into swooning scents. She loved best the
moment when the Common came in view, when through