you will marry her or any one else. But I insist on saying she's your
type--she's the kind of a person artists do dig up and marry--only better
than most of them, far better."

"Dig up?" said Insall.

"Well, you know I'm not a snob--I only mean that she seems to be one of
the surprising anomalies that sometimes occur in--what shall I say?--in
the working-classes. I do feel like a snob when I say that. But what is
it? Where does that spark come from? Is it in our modern air, that
discontent, that desire, that thrusting forth toward a new light
--something as yet unformulated, but which we all feel, even at small
institutions of learning like Silliston?"

"Now you're getting beyond me."

"Oh no, I'm not," Mrs. Maturin retorted confidently. "If you won't talk
about it, I will, I have no shame. And this girl has it--this thing I'm
trying to express. She's modern to her finger tips, and yet she's
extraordinarily American--in spite of her modernity, she embodies in some
queer way our tradition. She loves our old houses at Silliston--they make
her feel at home--that's her own expression."

"Did she say that?"

"Exactly. And I know she's of New England ancestry, she told me so. What
I can't make out is, why she joined the I.W.W. That seems so
contradictory."

"Perhaps she was searching for light there," Insall hazarded. "Why don't