WHEN PIPPA PASSED
of her, like the waves from some proud young prow, and fall behind.
"Yet she's not unsympathetic—I swear she's not!" he thought, as her eyes glowed to the poem and her lips parted delightedly.
"'And moored at last in some pale bay'—Uncle Les, isn't that beautiful! Not that it's really so fine as the first part, but it's easier to remember. And he was hungry? Oh, oh! And you discovered him, didn't you?"
He nodded complacently.
"I'll bring you around the rest of the things to-morrow. I knew you'd enjoy this, Anne. You love—really love—this sort of thing, don't you?"
She nodded eagerly.
"But nothing else? Nobody—you don't think that perhaps you're letting—after all, my dear, life is something more than the beautiful things you surround yourself with—pictures and music and poetry, and all that. It really is. There is so much"
"There is one's religion," she said quietly and not uncordially. But she had retreated intangibly
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