“You disparage these scenes,” said Stevens, after several moments had been given to the survey of that before him, “and yet you have drawn your inspiration from them--the fresh food which stimulates poetry and strengthens enthusiasm. Here you learned to be contemplative; and here, in solitude, was your genius nursed. Do not be ungrateful, Margaret--you owe to these very scenes all that you are, and all that you may become.” “Stay! before I answer. Do you see yon bird?” “Where?” “In the west--there!” she pointed with her fingers, catching his wrist unconsciously, at the same time, with the other hand, as if more certainly to direct his gaze. “I see it--what bird is it?” “An eagle! See how it soars and swings; effortless, as if supported by some external power!” “Indeed--it seems small for an eagle.” “It is one nevertheless! There are thousands of them that roost among the hills in that quarter. I know the place thoroughly. The heights are the greatest that we have in the surrounding country. The distance from this spot is about five miles. He, no doubt, has some fish, or bird now within his talons, with which to feed his young. He will feed them, and they will grow strong, and will finally use their own wings. Shall he continue to feed them after that? Must they never seek their own food?” “Surely they must.” “If these solitudes have nursed me, must they continue to nurse me always? Must I never use the wings to which they have given vigor? Must I never employ the sight to which they have imparted vigilance? Must I never go forth, and strive and soar, and make air, and earth, and sea, tributary to my wing and eye? Alas! I am a woman!--and her name is weakness! You tell me of what I am, and of what I may become. But what am I? I mock myself too often with this question to believe all your fine speeches. And what may I become? Alas! who can tell me that? I know my strength, but I also know my weakness. I feel the burning thoughts of my brain; I feel the yearning impulses in my heart; but they bring nothing--they promise nothing--I feel the pang of constant denial. I feel that I can be nothing!” “Say not so, Margaret--think not so, I beseech you. With your genius, your enthusiasm--your powers of expression--there is nothing, becoming in your sex, and worthy of it, which you may not be.”