"It's very interesting," she added, "and I must get it right. Give it to me slowly in technical language, so that I can take it down. I guess I got some of the terms mixed--absurdly, too, didn't I?" He caught a glimpse, so to speak, of the girl's charming kindness of heart and evident sincerity of purpose, which instantly won upon him. He changed without appearing to change and took great pains to give her the information she desired, volunteering besides to detail a number of the most striking incidents of the morning. "Why shouldn't you try writing a novel and weave into it something of this sort?" he asked. "It seems to me that you might make a lively story of such materials as you are gathering." "And if I should write one," she answered, her face growing serious, "I couldn't get it printed." "Why?" "Oh, the publishers don't want provincial stories, they are not in vogue now." "Ah, well, but make it so fresh and true to life and so breezy and interesting generally, that the publishers couldn't refuse. I know you could." "That's a kind compliment, but I'm too well posted to be carried away. A novel, now-a-days, must be what they call analytical, a fine-spun exemplification of an author's power to lay bare the motives of his characters in doing what they do. Plots are abolished, stories ignored." "But I like stories, genuine love-stories, with a smack of adventure and lots of incidents," he earnestly exclaimed. "What's the interest in all this long-drawn, tedious nonsense about a common-place American young woman's reasons for refusing an English nobleman, or about why a European patrician of doubtful morals could not condescend to marry a good, free, sweet American girl?" Miss Crabb smiled and shook her head. "But the critics have decided against you, and what are you going to do about it? I, too, like stories, and so, I think, does almost every body, but they are out of fashion. All the thrifty writers go in for the analytical novel now. It don't make much difference what your characters do, so that you are able to dissect their motives for so doing." She sighed regretfully as she ended, as if the subject had awakened sad memories. "Well, if I were a critic," said he, with a light laugh, "I'd give your story a genuine indorsement of authority." "No, you wouldn't," she responded. "You re a man and you'd do as the rest. You'd say: Poor girl, she'd better be washing dishes or teaching school." Boardman laughed. Beresford saw the mistletoe spray in Mrs. Ransom's hat, and, not dreaming of any one else than herself having put it there, asked where she had got it. "Mr. Reynolds brought it from somewhere in his rambles this morning," she said. She took off her hat and plucked out the sprig, but after hesitating a moment, put it back again.