There are two more days of June. Since the talk with Sylvia I have
called twice more upon the elder Miss Cobb. Upon reflection, it
is misleading to refer to this young lady in terms so dry, stiff,
and denuded; and I shall drop into Sylvia's form, and call her
simply Georgiana. That looks better--Georgiana! It sounds well,
too--Georgiana!

Georgiana, then, is a rather elusive character. The more I see of
her the less I understand her. If your nature draws near hers, it
retreats. If you pursue, it flies--a little frightened perhaps.
If then you keep still and look perfectly safe, she will return,
but remain at a fixed distance, like a bird that will stay in your
yard, but not enter your house. It is hardly shyness, for she is not
shy, but more like some strain of wild nature in her that refuses
to be domesticated. One's faith is strained to accept Sylvia's
estimate that Georgiana is deep--she is so light, so airy, so
playful. Sylvia is a demure little dove that has pulled over itself
an owl's skin, and is much prouder of its wicked old feathers than
of its innocent heart; but Georgiana--what is she? Secretly an
owl with the buoyancy of a humming-bird? However, it's nothing to
me. She hovers around her mother and Sylvia with a fondness that
is rather beautiful. I did not mention the subject of Audubon and
her father, for it is never well to let an elder sister know that
a younger one has been talking about her. I merely gave her several
chances to speak of birds, but she ignored them. As for me and
_my_ love of birds, such trifles are beneath her notice. I don't
like her, and it will not be worth while to call again soon, though
it would be pleasant to see those drawings.