conduct may vibrate with the extinct movements of his ancestors.

Georgiana's behavior then was merely the forerunner of larger marvels.
For next morning I wrote a futile drastic treatise on Woman's inability
to understand Man and Man's inability to understand Himself, and set it
under her window. It made such a roll of paper that the goldfinch's
nest looked as though it were distent with a sort of misshapen ostrich
egg. All day I waited with a heart as silent as a great clock run
down; my system of philosophy swung dead in the air. To my tortured
vision as I eyed it secretly from my porch, it took on the semblance of
one of Sylvia's poetical potatoes, and I found myself urging in its
behalf Sylvia's fondest epithets: "how homely, yet how beautiful,"
"little thought of, but very necessary," "unostentatious, but of lovely
internal appearance."

Towards sunset I took it sadly down. On top of the nest lay
Georgiana's old scarlet emery-bag stuck full of her needles! She had
divined what all the writing meant and would not have it. Instead she
sent me this emblem not only of her forgiveness but of her surrender.
When a man expects a woman to scold him and she does not, he either
gets to be a little afraid of her morally or he wants to take her in
his arms. Henceforth, if Georgiana were removed to another planet, I
would rather worship her there simply as my evening or morning star
than coexist with any earthly woman. One thought besets me: did she
realize that perhaps she herself was the cause of my misdemeanors with
Sylvia? Has she the penetration to discover that when a woman is
engaged to a man she cannot deny him all things except at her own peril?

This proof of her high-mindedness and the enchanting glimpses of her
face that she has vouchsafed me since, goaded me yesterday morning to