had a vague hope that this childlike girl, despite so much of
childlike talk, would understand him; and she did at once.

Advancing close to him, again laying her hand on his arm, and looking
up towards his bended face with startled wondering eyes, no longer
sad, yet not mirthful,--

"How true! You have felt that too? Where /is/ that innermost self,
so deep down,--so deep; yet when it does come forth, so much
higher,--higher,--immeasurably higher than one's everyday self? It
does not tame the butterflies; it longs to get to the stars. And
then,--and then,--ah, how soon it fades back again! You have felt
that. Does it not puzzle you?"

"Very much."

"Are there no wise books about it that help to explain?"

"No wise books in my very limited reading even hint at the puzzle. I
fancy that it is one of those insoluble questions that rest between
the infant and his Maker. Mind and soul are not the same things, and
what you and I call 'wise men' are always confounding the two--"

Fortunately for all parties--especially the reader; for Kenelm had
here got on the back of one of his most cherished hobbies, the
distinction between psychology and metaphysics, soul and mind
scientifically or logically considered--Mrs. Cameron here entered the
room, and asked him how he liked the picture.

"Very much. I am no great judge of the art. But it pleased me at