baby faces. The room was a unity; things fitted together as if they belonged together. It was restful and beautiful, from the cheerful pine blaze before which Miss Smith was sitting, to the square-paned window that let in the crimson rays of gathering night. All round the room, stopping only at the fireplace, ran low shelves of the same yellow pine, filled with books and magazines. He scanned curiously Plato’s Republic, Gorky’s “Comrades,” a Cyclopædia of Agriculture, Balzac’s novels, Spencer’s “First Principles,” Tennyson’s Poems.
“This is my university,” Zora explained, smiling at his interested survey. They went out again and wandered down near the old lagoon.
“Now, Bles,” she began, “since we understand each other, can we not work together as good friends?” She spoke simply and frankly, without apparent effort, and talked on at length of her work and vision.
Somehow he could not understand. His mental attitude toward Zora had always been one of guidance, guardianship, and instruction. He had been judging and weighing her from on high, looking down upon her with thoughts of uplift and development. Always he had been holding her dark little hands to lead