unusual thing for her, and Miss Hume, her elderly
companion, genial in spite of her precise formality, was industriously
embroidering something not far away. There was not a breath of wind
astir; a soft gray sky streaked with long bars of stronger color hung
motionless over the wide prospect. Wood and moorland ridge and distant
hill had faded to dimness of contour and quiet neutral tones. Indeed, the
whole scene seemed steeped in a profound tranquillity, intensified only
by the murmur of the river.

Lisle enjoyed it all, though he was conscious that Millicent's presence
added to its charm. He had grown to feel restful and curiously at ease in
her company. She was, he thought, so essentially natural; one felt at
home with her.

"I haven't often seen you with the unoccupied appearance you have just
now," he remarked at length.

"I have sent the book off, and after being at work on it so long, I feel
disinclined to do anything else," she said. "I've just heard from the
publishers; they don't seem enthusiastic. After all, one couldn't expect
that--the style of the thing is rather out of the usual course."

Lisle looked angry and she was pleased with his indignation on her
behalf.

"They show precious little sense!" he declared; "but you're right. It's
one of your English customs to go on from precedent to precedent until
you get an unmodifiable standard, when you slavishly conform to it. Now
your book's neither a classification nor a catalogue--it's something far
bigger. Never mind what the experts and scientists say; wait until the
people who love the wild things and want their story made real get it
into their hands!"

His confidence was gratifying, but she changed the subject.

"You Canadians haven't much respect for precedent?"

"No; we try to meet the varying need by constantly changing means.
They're often crude, but they're successful, as a rule."

"It's a system that must have a wide effect," she responded, to lead him
on. She liked to hear him talk.

"It has. You can see it in the difference between your country and mine.
This land's smooth and well trimmed; everything in it has grown up little
by little; its mellow ripeness is its charm. Ours is grand or rugged or
desolate, but it's never merely pretty. The same applies to our people;
they're bubbling over with raw, optimistic vigor, their corners are not
rubbed off. Some of them would jar on overcivilized people, but not, I
think, on any one with unde