"Good morning," aroused her from a dream, and she found herself looking at Colin. "Giles was hunting for you. He is called off for the day on business—awful nuisance for him. Would you like to see the cast of your head? You've not been to my studio yet." She laughed. "Considering that you came home last night—" "I forgot. Come now, if you have nothing better to do." Phyllys complied, relieved to hear that Giles was out of reach. Anything to gain time. The bust was on a pedestal, near that of Elsye, side by side with that of Giles. Phyllys noted the latter fact. She stood gazing at the successful reproduction of her own pretty outlines. "Grannie would love to see it some day." "You like it?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? But I'm no judge." "Some day if you will sit to me again, I'll do another for Mrs. Wyverne." "Like this?" "Too much to ask! It might be better—or worse." "You could not make a copy, I suppose?" "I'm no good at copying." "And if you took me a third and fourth time—they would all be different." "Yes. If you sat to a class of students, and a dozen heads were modelled, no two would be the same. Taken from the same Phyllys, at the same time, under the same conditions—several might be good likenesses, yet all would differ." "Curious," she murmured. "Each modeller sees with different eyes—according to his own capacity for seeing, and his own mental make. What we see is always in part a reflection of what we are in ourselves. A dozen artists copying you would see each a different Phyllys—all to some extent the true Phyllys, but no two the same. The Phyllys that I see is not the Phyllys that Giles sees. The Giles whom I see is not the Giles whom you see." He was interesting her with his old power; and his words sent her in recollection to a chat with the old Vicar of Midfell. "It's like the light on different surfaces," she murmured; and a word from Colin drew a fuller statement. "That is just it." He grasped the thought instantly. "Different surfaces give forth what they are able to receive—what, in common language, they can 'see.'" "Then, what one 'sees' one seems to others." "That practically is the outcome." "And people blame one another for not seeing more." "Whence sprang the persecutions of the Middle Ages. The soil was for ever trying to smother the water, and the water to drown the grass." "We don't persecute now." "No. Modern martyrdom with us is a sorry armchair business. But we belabour one another with hard words—for not being able all to see Divine Light in the same fashion." "'You' don't say hard words of others, even when you don't think like them." He smiled, and murmured— "Shall one like me— Judge hearts—like yours?" The response in her face made him turn to a table and open a small book, pointing to the page. She read—