of the emancipated young American girl—practical, positive, passionless, subtle, and knowing, as you please, either too much or too little.  And yet, as I say, they have a certain stamp, a certain grace; I like to talk with them, to study them.

The fair New Yorker is, sometimes, very amusing; she asks me if every one in Boston talks like me—if every one is as “intellectual” as your poor correspondent.  She is for ever throwing Boston up at me; I can’t get rid of Boston.  The other one rubs it into me too; but in a different way; she seems to feel about it as a good Mahommedan feels toward Mecca, and regards it as a kind of focus of light for the whole human race.  Poor little Boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name!  But this New England maiden is, in her way, a strange type: she is travelling all over Europe alone—“to see it,” she says, “for herself.”  For herself!  What can that stiff slim self of hers do with such sights, such visions!  She looks at everything, goes everywhere, passes her way, with her clear quiet eyes wide open; skirting the edge of obscene abysses without suspecting them; pushing through brambles without tearing her robe; exciting, without knowing it, the most injurious suspicions; and always holding her course, passionless, stainless, fearless, charmless!  It is a little figure in which, after all, if you can get the right point of view, there is something rather striking.

By way of contrast, there is a lovely English girl, with eyes as shy as violets, and a voice as sweet!  She has a sweet Gainsborough head, and a great Gainsborough hat, with a mighty plume in front of it, which makes a shadow over her quiet English eyes.  Then she has a sage-green robe, “mystic, wonderful,” all embroidered with subtle devices and flowers, and birds of tender tint; very straight and tight in front, and adorned behind, along the spine, with large, strange, iridescent buttons.  The revival of taste, of the sense of beauty, in England, interests me deeply; what is there in a simple row of spinal buttons to make one dream—to donnor à rêver, as they say here?  I think that a great æsthetic renascence is at hand, and that a great light will be kindled in England, for all the world to see.  There are spirits there that I should like to commune with; I think they would understand me.

This gracious English maiden, with her clinging robes, her amulets and girdles, with something quaint and angular in her step, her carriage something mediæval and Gothic, in the details of her person and dress, this lovely Evelyn Vane (isn’t it a beautiful name?) is deeply, delightfully picturesque.  She is much a woman—elle est bien femme, as they say here; simpler, softer, rounder, richer than the young girls I spoke of just now.  Not much talk—a great, sweet silence.  Then the violet eye—the very eye itself seems to blush; the great shadowy hat, making the brow so quiet; the strange, clinging, clutching, pictured raiment!  As I say, it is a very gracious, tender type.  She has her brother with her, who is a beautiful, fair-haired, gray-eyed young Englishman.  He is purely objective; and he, too, is very plastic.

CHAPTER V

FROM MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER.

September 26th.

You must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not because I am in any trouble, but because I am getting on so well.  If I were in any trouble I don’t think I should write to you; I should just keep quiet and see it through myself.  But that is not the case at present and, if I don’t write to you, it is because I am so deeply interested over here that I don’t seem to find time.  It was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I am able to do much good work.  I wonder how I find the time for all I do; but when I think that I have only got a year in Europe, I feel as if I wouldn’t sacrifice a single hour.

The obstacles I refer to are the disadvantages I have in learning French, there being so many persons around me speaking English, and that, as you may say, in the very bosom of a French family.  It seems as if you heard English everywhere; but I certainly didn’t expect to find it in a place like this.  I am not discouraged, however, and I talk French all I can, even with the other English boarders.  Then I have a lesson every day from Miss Maisonrouge (the elder daughter of the lady of the house), and French conversation every evening in the salon, from eight to eleven, with Madame herself, and some friends of hers that often come in.  Her cousin, Mr. Verdier, a young French gentleman, is fortunately staying with her, and I make a point of talking with him as much as possible.  I have extra private lessons from him, and I often go out to walk with him.  Some night, soon, he is to accompany me to the opera.  We have also a most interesting plan of visiting all the galleries in Paris together.  Like most of the French, he converses with great fluency, and I feel as if I should really gain from him.  He is remarkably handsome, and extremely polite—paying a great many compliments, which, I am afraid, are not always sincere.  When I return to Bangor I will tell you some of the things he has said to me.  I think you will consider them extremely curious, and very beautiful in their way.

The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) is often remarkably brilliant, and I often wish that you, or some of the Bangor folks, could be there to enjoy it.  Even though you couldn’t understand it I think you would like to hear the way they go on; they seem to express so much.  I sometimes think that at Bangor they don’t express enough (but it seems as if over there, there was less to express).  It seems as if; at Bangor, there were things that folks never tried to say; but here, I have learned from studying French that you have no idea what you can say, before you try.  At Bangor they seem to give it up beforehand; they don’t make any effort.  (I don’t say this in the least for William Platt, in particular.)

I am sure I don’t know what they will think of me when I get back.  It seems as if; over here, I had learned to come out with everything.  I suppose they will think I am not sincere; but isn’t it more sincere to come out with things than to conceal them?  I have become very good friends with every one in the house—that is (you see, I am sincere), with almost every one.  It is the most interesting circle I ever was in.  There’s a girl here, an American, that I don’t like so much as the rest; but that is only because she won’t let me.  I should like to like her, ever so much, because she is most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn’t seem to want to know me or to like me.  She comes from New York, and she is remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she is also remarkably elegant—in this respect would bear comparison with any one I have seen over here.  But it seems as if she didn’t want to recognise me or associate with me; as if she wanted to make a difference between us.  It is like people they call “haughty” in books.  I have never seen any one like that before—any one that wanted to make a difference; and at first I was right down interested, she seemed to me so like a proud young lady in a novel.  I kept saying to myself all day, “haughty, haughty,” and I wished she would keep on so.  But she did keep on; she kept on too long; and then I began to feel hurt.  I couldn’t think what I have done, and I can’t think yet.  It’s as if she had got some idea about me, or had heard some one say something.  If some girls should behave like that I shouldn’t make any account of it; but this one is so refined, and looks as if she might be so interesting if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal.  I am bound to find out what her reason is—for of course she has got some reason; I am right