What were her feelings toward me? She liked me, but I could not bring to mind a single word or expression which would lead me to infer her heart was touched, unless it was the incident on the log bridge, when she had remained silent for such a long time, and her words when she finally spoke. Surely her interest was more than casual to dictate a speech like that. If Gran'fer had not come I think now I would have told her then, for the simple sentence had set light to a powder train in my breast. I believe in caste. I am something of a democrat, and much of a socialist. While the dream of universal brotherhood in its broadest meaning is Utopian from its very nature, yet all humankind has a claim upon us, for the body of Socrates and the body of Lazarus were wrought from the same material. Yet caste, if correctly applied, instead of offensively and arrogantly, as it more often is, is almost indispensable to society. You would not have your daughter marry a drayman, nor your son marry a waiting-maid. That is what I mean when I say I believe in caste. But while we draw and maintain the line of distinction, we can still display a proper and becoming degree of courtesy. I have said that I love Lessie well enough to marry her, but I have not said that I love her well enough to marry her as she is. I know that would be a mistake which I would regret were she to remain as she is. But she does not belong in her present environment. I am as sure of that as I am that I live. Fate has cheated her, has imposed upon her, has grossly taken advantage of her helplessness. At the foundation of her being are lying inert, but real, many wonderful and beautiful and mysterious attributes and traits which go to make up the perfect, polished character of refinement. This also I know, because I have witnessed her pitiful strugglings against the degrading bonds of ignorance which Life has tightened about her. She feels this better part, which is unquestionably her true self, but she does not know what it is; to her it is simply a hidden, powerful, inner force which torments her with intangible, wordless protest and rebellion. She tries to obey--she has told me so--but she does not know what to do, or say. Poor little Dryad! How should she?