"So she is of mine; and I love her the more for the womanly outburst of honest truth that triumphed over all conventionality. Norman, what she, the 'loveliest maiden in Plymouth,' the beloved of Miles Standish, said to John Alden, I say to you--'Why don't you speak for yourself?'" There was infinite tenderness in his face as he bent over her--infinite pain in his voice as he spoke to her. "John Alden loved Priscilla," he said, slowly--"she was the one woman in all the world for him--his ideal--his fate, but I--oh Philippa, how I hate myself because I cannot answer you differently! You are my friend, my sister, but not the woman I must love as my wife." "When you urged me a few minutes since to marry your friend, you asked me why I could not love him, seeing that he had all lovable qualities. Norman, why can you not love me?" "I can answer you only in the same words--I do not know. I love you with as true an affection as ever man gave to woman; but I have not for you a lover's love. I cannot tell why, for you are one of the fairest of fair women." "Fair, but not your 'ideal woman,'" she said, gently. "No, not my 'ideal woman,'" he returned; "my sister, my friend--not my love." "I am to blame," she said, proudly; "but again I must plead that I am like Priscilla. While you are pleading the cause of another, the truth came uppermost; you must forgive me for speaking so forcibly. As the poem says: "'There are moments in life when the heart is so full of emotions That if, by chance, it be shaken, or into its depths, like a pebble, Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.'" "My dearest Philippa, you have not been to blame," he said; "you judge yourself so hardly always." "It is the fate of a woman to be silent," she said again. "Still, I am glad that I have spoken. Norman, will you tell me what your ideal of woman is like, that I may know her when I see her?" "Nay," he objected, gently, "let us talk of something else." But she persisted. "Tell me," she urged, "that I may know in what she differs from me." "I do not know that I can tell you," he replied. "I have not thought much of the matter." "But if any one asked you to describe your ideal of what a woman should be, you could do it," she pursued. "Perhaps so, but at best it would be but an imperfect sketch. She must be young, fair, gentle, pure, tender of heart, noble in soul, with a kind of shy, sweet grace; frank, yet not outspoken; free from all affectation, yet with nothing unwomanly; a mixture of child and woman. If I love an ideal, it is something like that." "And she must be fair, like all the ladies Arleigh, with eyes like the hyacinth, and hair tinged with gold, I suppose, Norman?"