"Your rather sentimental figure of speech, Mr. Van Berg, shows where your error lies. Miss Mayhew and myself are not pellucid drops of dew that you look through at a glance. We are women: and the one thing in this world which men never will learn to understand is a woman. I'm going to puzzle you still further. I am learning to have a very thorough respect for Miss Mayhew. I am beginning to admire her exceedingly, and to think that she is growing exquisitely beautiful; and yet were she here this week you would find that I would not seek her society. Give your mind to your art, and never hope to untangle the snarl of a woman's mind. Men, in attempting such folly, have become hopelessly entangled. Take a woman's word for it--what you see you can't reason out. I've no doubt but that Miss Mayhew has excellent reasons for disliking me, and the fact that you can't understand them is nothing against them." "Miss Jennie," said Van Berg resolutely, "for once I cannot take your word for it. You two ladies have puzzled me all summer, and I'll never be content till I solve the mysteries which so baffle me. My interest is not curiosity, but friendship, to say the least, that I hope will last through life. You will tell me some day all your trouble, and you will feel the better for telling me." She became very pale at these words, and said gravely: "I cannot promise that--I doubt it. You may have to trust me blindly till you forget me." "I do not trust you blindly; I never will forget you," he began, impetuously. "Good-night, Mr. Van Berg," she said, and in a moment he was alone on the piazza. "She is an angel of light, he muttered, "and not a woman. I could worship her, but I'm too earthy in my nature to lover her as I ought." He took the earliest train to New York, and so had a long afternoon in his studio. He was surprised to find how absorbed he soon became in his work. "Miss Jennie is right," he thought; "I'm an artist, and not a reformer or a metaphysician, and I had better spend my time here than in trying to solve feminine enigmas;" and he worked like a beaver until the fading light compelled him to desist. "There," he said, "that is a fair beginning. Two or three more days of work like this will secure me, I think, a friendlier glance than Miss Ida gave me last." From which words it might be gathered that he was thinking of other rewards than mere success in his art. In the evening the wand of Theodore Thomas had a spell which he never thought of resisting, and it must be admitted that there lurked in his mind the hope that Ida and her father might be drawn to the concert garden also. If so, he was sure he would pursue his investigations.