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looking in his face with an expression of unfeigned concern； 〃you
were at work of some kind； I know； and I have very selfishly
thought only of myself。 But the whole scene was so new to me； and
I so rarely meet any one who sees things as I do； that I know you
will forgive me。〃 She bent her eyes upon him with a certain soft
timidity。 〃You are an artist？〃
〃I am afraid not；〃 he said； coloring and smiling faintly； 〃I don't
think I could draw a straight line。〃
〃Don't try to； they're not pretty； and the mere ability to draw
them straight or curved doesn't make an artist。 But you are a
LOVER of nature； I know； and from what I have heard you say I
believe you can do what lovers cannot do；make others feel as they
do；and that is what I call being an artist。 You write？ You are
a poet？〃
〃Oh dear； no；〃 he said with a smile； half of relief and half of
naive superiority； 〃I'm a prose writeron a daily newspaper。〃
To his surprise she was not disconcerted； rather a look of
animation lit up her face as she said brightly； 〃Oh； then； you can
of course satisfy my curiosity about something。 You know the road
from San Francisco to the Cliff House。 Except for the view of the
sea…lions when one gets there it's stupid； my brother says it's
like all the San Francisco excursions；a dusty drive with a julep
at the end of it。 Well； one day we were coming back from a drive
there； and when we were beginning to wind along the brow of that
dreadful staring Lone Mountain Cemetery； I said I would get out and
walk； and avoid the obtrusive glitter of those tombstones rising
before me all the way。 I pushed open a little gate and passed in。
Once among these funereal shrubs and cold statuesque lilies
everything was changed； I saw the staring tombstones no longer；
for； like them； I seemed to be always facing the sea。 The road had
vanished； everything had vanished but the endless waste of ocean
below me； and the last slope of rock and sand。 It seemed to be the
fittest place for a cemetery；this end of the crumbling earth；
this beginning of the eternal sea。 There！ don't think that idea my
own； or that I thought of it then。 No；I read it all afterwards；
and that's why I'm telling you this。〃
She could not help smiling at his now attentive face； and went on：
〃Some days afterwards I got hold of a newspaper four or six months
old； and there was a description of all that I thought I had seen
and felt；only far more beautiful and touching； as you shall see；
for I cut it out of the paper and have kept it。 It seemed to me
that it must be some personal experience；as if the writer had
followed some dear friend there；although it was with the
unostentation and indefiniteness of true and delicate feeling。 It
impressed me so much that I went back there twice or thrice； and
always seemed to move to the rhythm of that beautiful funeral
marchand I am afraid； being a woman； that I wandered around among
the graves as though I could find out who it was that had been sung
so sweetly； and if it were man or woman。 I've got it here；〃 she
said； taking a dainty ivory porte…monnaie from her pocket and
picking out with two slim finger…tips a folded slip of newspaper；
〃and I thought that maybe you might recognize the style of the
writer； and perhaps know something of his history。 For I believe
he has one。 There！ that is only a part of the article； of course；
but it is the part that interested me。 Just read from there；〃 she
pointed； leaning partly over his shoulder so that her soft breath
stirred his hair； 〃to the end； it isn't long。〃
In the film that seemed to come across his eyes； suddenly the print
appeared blurred and indistinct。 But he knew that she had put into
his hand something he had written after the death of his wife；
something spontaneous and impulsive； when her loss still filled his
days and nights and almost unconsciously swayed his pen。 He
remembered that his eyes had been as dim when he wrote itand now
handed to him by this smiling； well…to…do woman； he was as shocked
at first as if he had suddenly found her reading his private
letters。 This was followed by a sudden sense of shame that he had
ever thus publicly bared his feelings； and then by the illogical
but irresistible conviction that it was false and stupid。 The few
phrases she had pointed out appeared as cheap and hollow rhetoric
amid the surroundings of their social tete…a…tete over the
luncheon…table。 There was small danger that this heady wine of
woman's praise would make him betray himself； there was no sign of
gratified authorship in his voice as he quietly laid down the paper
and said dryly： 〃I am afraid I can't help you。 You know it may be
purely fanciful。〃
〃I don't think so；〃 said Mrs。 Ashwood thoughtfully。 〃At the same
time it doesn't strike me as a very abiding grief for that very
reason。 It's TOO sympathetic。 It strikes me that it might be the
first grief of some one too young to be inured to sorrow or
experienced enough to accept it as the common lot。 But like all
youthful impressions it is very sincere and true while it lasts。 I
don't know whether one gets anything more real when one gets
older。〃
With an insincerity he could not account for； he now felt inclined
to defend his previous sentiment； although all the while conscious
of a certain charm in his companion's graceful skepticism。 He had
in his truthfulness and independence hitherto always been quite
free from that feeble admiration of cynicism which attacks the
intellectually weak and immature； and his present predilection may
have been due more to her charming personality。 She was not at all
like his sisters； she had none of Clementina's cold abstraction；
and none of Euphemia's sharp and demonstrative effusiveness。 And
in his secret consciousness of her flattering foreknowledge of him；
with her assurance that before they had ever met he had unwittingly
influenced her； he began to feel more at his ease。 His fair
companion also； in the equally secret knowledge she had acquired of
his history； felt as secure as if she had been formally introduced。
Nobody could find fault with her for showing civility to the
ostensible son of her host； it was not necessary that she should be
aware of their family differences。 There was a charm too in their
enforced isolation； in what was the exceptional solitude of the
little hotel that day； and the seclusion of their table by the
window of the dining…room； which gave a charming domesticity to
their repast。 From time to time they glanced down the lonely
canyon； losing itself in the afternoon shadow。 Nevertheless Mrs。
Ashwood's preoccupation with Nature did not preclude a human
curiosity to hear something more of John Milton's quarrel with his
father。 There was certainly nothing of the prodigal son about him；
there was no precocious evil knowledge in his frank eyes； no record
of excesses in his healthy； fresh complexion； no unwholesome or
disturbed tastes in what she had seen of his rural preferences and
understanding of natural beauty。 To have attempted any direct
questioning that would have revealed his name and identity would
have obliged her to speak of herself as his father's guest。 She
began indirectly； he had said he had been a reporter； and he was
still a chronicler of this strange life。 He had of course heard of
many cases of family feuds and estrangements？ Her brother had told
her of some dreadful vendettas he had known in the Southwest； and
how whole families had been divided。 Since she had been here she
had heard of odd cases of brothers meeting accidentally after long
and unaccounted separations； of husbands suddenly confronted with
wives they had deserted； of fathers encountering discarded sons！
John Milton's face betrayed no uneasy consciousness。 If anything
it was beginning to glow with a boyish admiration of the grace and
intelligence of the fair speaker； that was perhaps heightened by an
assumption of half coquettish discomfiture。
〃You are laughing at me！〃 she said finally。 〃But inhuman and
selfish as these stories may seem； and sometimes are； I believe
that these curious estrangements and separations often come from
some fatal weakness of temperament that might be strengthened； or
some trivial misunderstanding that could be explained。 It is
separation that makes them seem irrevocable only because they are
inexplicable； and a vague memory always seems more terrible than a
definite one。 Facts may be forgiven and forgotten； but mysteries
haunt one always。 I believe there are weak； sensitive people who
dread to put their wrongs into shape； those are the kind who sulk；
and when you add separation to sulking； reconciliation becomes
impossible。 I knew a very singular case of that kind once。 If you
like； I'll tell it to you。 May be you will be able； some day； to
weave it into one of your writings。 And it's quite true。〃
It is har