of one born to freedom. Nothing in me, nothing, is akin to that gross world from which I have escaped!” So she thought—with every drop of her heart’s blood crying its source from that red fountain of revolt whereon never yet did the upper daylight gleam! Brain and pulses such as hers belong not to the mild breed of mortals fostered in sunshine. But for the stroke of fate, she might have won that reception which was in her dream, and with what self-mockery when experience had matured itself! Never yet did true rebel, who has burst the barriers of social limitation, find aught but ennui in the trim gardens beyond.
When John asked if the book had given her amusement, she said that reading made her eyes ache. He noticed that her hand felt feverish, and that the dark mood had fallen upon her as badly as ever to-night.
“It’s just what I said,” she exclaimed with abruptness, after long refusal to speak. “I knew your friend would never come as long as I was here.”
John regarded her anxiously. The phrase “your friend” had a peculiar sound that disturbed him. It made him aware that she had
