Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long
visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think
of. "But we haven't very far to go now--only another mile."

She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with
the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led.

"Oh, Mr. Cuthbert," she whispered, "that place we came
through--that white place--what was it?"

"Well now, you must mean the Avenue," said Matthew after a few
moments' profound reflection. "It is a kind of pretty place."

"Pretty? Oh, PRETTY doesn't seem the right word to use.
Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it
was wonderful--wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw
that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just
satisfies me here"--she put one hand on her breast--"it made
a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you
ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?"

"Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had."

"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally
beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the
Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They
should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't
that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of
a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always
think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name