s Sylvia's progress towards perfection."

"Why didn't you wish us to be your neighbors?"

"I didn't know that you were the right sort of people."

"_Are_ we the right sort?"

"The value of my land has almost been doubled."

It is a pleasure to know that you approve of us on those grounds.
Will the value of _our_ land rise also, do you think? And why do
you suppose we objected to _you_ as a neighbor?"

"I cannot imagine."

"The imagination can be cultivated, you know. Then tell me this:
why do Kentuckians in this part of Kentucky think so much of
themselves compared with the rest of the world?"

"Perhaps it's because they are Virginians. There may be various
reasons."

"Do the people ever tell what the reasons are?"

"I have never heard one."

"And if we stayed here long enough, and imitated them very closely,
do you suppose we would get to feel the same way?"

"I am sure of it."

"It must be so pleasant to consider Kentucky the best part of
the world, and _your_ part of Kentucky the best of the State, and
_your_ family the best of all the best families in that best part,
and yourself the best member of your family. Ought not that to
make one perfectly happy?"

"I have often observed that it seems to do so."

"It is delightful to remember that _you_ approve of us. And we
should feel _so_ glad to be able to return the compliment. Good-bye!"

Any one would have to admit, however, that there is no sharpness
in Georgiana's pleasantry. The child-nature in her is so sunny,
sportive, so bent on harmless mischief. She still plays with life
as a kitten with a ball of yarn. Some day Kitty will fall asleep
with the Ball poised in the cup of one foot. Then, waking, when
her dream is over, she will find that her plaything has become
a rocky, thorny, storm-swept, immeasurable world, and that she, a
woman, stands holding out towards it her imploring arms, and asking
only for some littlest part in its infinite destinies.

After the last talk with Georgiana I felt renewed desire to see those
Audubon drawings. So yesterday morning I sent over to her some
things written by a Northern man, whom I call the young Audubon
of the Maine woods. His name is Henry D. Thoreau, and it is, I
believe, known only to me down here. Everything that I can find of
his is as pure and cold and lonely as a wild cedar of the mountain
rocks, standing far above its smokeless valley and hushed white
river. She returned them