"I love the sun; it is never too bright nor too warm for me. But I don't think that, though born in May, I was born in sunlight. I feel more like my own native self when I creep into the shade and sit down alone. I can weep then." As she thus shyly ended, the character of her whole countenance was changed: its infantine mirthfulness was gone; a grave, thoughtful, even a sad expression settled on the tender eyes and the tremulous lips. Kenelm was so touched that words failed him, and there was silence for some moments between the two. At length Kenelm said, slowly,-- "You say your own native self. Do you, then, feel, as I often do, that there is a second, possibly a /native/, self, deep hid beneath the self,--not merely what we show to the world in common (that may be merely a mask), but the self that we ordinarily accept even when in solitude as our own, an inner innermost self, oh so different and so rarely coming forth from its hiding-place, asserting its right of sovereignty, and putting out the other self as the sun puts out a star?" Had Kenelm thus spoken to a clever man of the world--to a Chillingly Mivers, to a Chillingly Gordon--they certainly would not have understood him. But to such men he never would have thus spoken. He had a vague hope that this childlike girl, despite so much of childlike talk, would understand him; and she did at once. Advancing close to him, again laying her hand on his arm, and looking up towards his bended face with startled wondering eyes, no longer sad, yet not mirthful,-- "How true! You have felt that too? Where /is/ that innermost self, so deep down,--so deep; yet when it does come forth, so much higher,--higher,--immeasurably higher than one's everyday self? It does not tame the butterflies; it longs to get to the stars. And then,--and then,--ah, how soon it fades back again! You have felt that. Does it not puzzle you?" "Very much." "Are there no wise books about it that help to explain?" "No wise books in my very limited reading even hint at the puzzle. I fancy that it is one of those insoluble questions that rest between the infant and his Maker. Mind and soul are not the same things, and what you and I call 'wise men' are always confounding the two--" Fortunately for all parties--especially the reader; for Kenelm had here got on the back of one of his most cherished hobbies, the distinction between psychology and metaphysics, soul and mind scientifically or logically considered--Mrs. Cameron here entered the room, and asked him how he liked the picture. "Very much. I am no great judge of the art. But it pleased me at once, and now that Miss Mordaunt has interpreted the intention of the painter I admire it yet more."