She read:
“White-footed the snow comes,
O’er the hills of beauty,
Treading like a penitent
Rough paths of duty.”
“What an exquisite figure,”—he interrupted,—“the personification of the snow, with white feet, like a penitent.” He had once made a bright mark in the world of letters, then ceased to strive and later ceased to care, so it might be supposed that his commendation was of some value.
“Miss Hill,” he said, with sudden animation, “what are you going to do with your life?”
“Live it, if I am permitted.”
“How?”
“I have my dreams.”
“Of what?”
She smiled, looking far away, but kept silence.
“I can’t make you out,” he said, a little peevishly. “I believe you have genius for literature, yet you seem to be perfectly indifferent about cultivating it. Were you like others one might suppose that love and marriage made up your dreams; but you are as indifferent to lovers as to possible fame. I don’t understand you.”