Workmen were trudging along with their luncheon-baskets of woven bulrushes slung over their shoulders. Fields of ripening grain lay on either hand, the sun shining on their every shade of green and yellow, bronze and orange, while the breeze stirred the bearded barley into a rippling golden sea.
Phœbe asked me if the people I had left behind at the Hydropathic were my relatives.
“Some of them are of remote consanguinity,” I responded evasively, and the next question was hushed upon her awe-stricken tongue, as I intended.
“They are obeying my wish to be let alone, there’s no doubt of that,” I was thinking. “For my part, I like a little more spirit, and a little less ‘letter’!”
As the word “letter” flitted through my thoughts, I pulled one from my pocket and glanced through it carelessly. It arrived, somewhat tardily, only last night, or I should not have had it with me. I wore the same dress to the post-office yesterday that I wore to the Hen Conference to-day, and so it chanced to be still in the pocket. If it had been anything I valued, of course I should have lost or destroyed it by mistake; it is only silly, worthless little things like this that keep turning up and turning up after one has forgotten their existence.
“You are a mystery!” [it ran.] “I can apprehend, but not comprehend you. I know you in part. I understand various bits of your nature; but my knowledge is always fragmentary and disconnected, and when I attempt to make a whole of the mosaics I merely get a kaleidoscopic effect. Do you know those geographical dissected puzzles that they give to children? You remind me of one of them.
“I have spent many charming (and dangerous) hours trying to ‘put you together’; but I find, when I examine my picture closely, that after all I’ve made a purple mountain grow out of a green tree; that my river is running up a steep hillside; and that the pretty milkmaid, who should be wandering in the forest, is standing on her head with her pail in the air
“Do you understand yourself clearly? Or is it just possible that when you dive to the depths of your own consciousness, you sometimes find the pretty milkmaid standing on her head? I wonder!” . . .
Ah, well, it is no wonder that he wonders! So do I, for that matter!
CHAPTER XII
