No one in the meeting seemed moved save myself, but I felt as if I
could become a poet, a painter, and even a lover, under the
inspiration of that perfect profile.




CHAPTER II

A JUNE DAY-DREAM


Moment after moment passed, but we all sat silent and motionless.
Through the open windows came a low, sweet monotone of the wind from
the shadowing maples, sometimes swelling into a great depth of sound,
and again dying to a whisper, and the effect seemed finer than that of
the most skilfully touched organ. Occasionally an irascible humble-bee
would dart in, and, after a moment of motionless poise, would dart out
again, as if in angry disdain of the quiet people. In its irate hum
and sudden dartings I saw my own irritable fuming and nervous
activity, and I blessed the Friends and their silent meeting. I
blessed the fair June face, that was as far removed from the seething
turmoil of my world as the rosebuds under her home-windows.

Surely I had drifted out of the storm into the very haven of rest and
peace, and yet one might justly dread lest the beauty which bound my
eyes every moment in a stronger fascination should evoke an unrest
from which there might be no haven. Young men, however, rarely shrink
from such perils, and I was no more prudent than my fellows. Indeed, I