"He was turning over the leaves, as he asked the question. "'Yes,' I replied, 'I have read it more than once.' "'More than once?' "'Yes, it is a book that requires some thought. Full of ideas and original suggestions. The story itself is a painful one. Indeed, I have my doubts--' "'Well, you have your doubts?' "His face flushed, his eyes searched mine with a look almost of defiance in them. "'Yes,' I continued, coloring painfully, for I am young and afraid to express adverse opinions, 'I sometimes doubt if it is not a little wicked.' "He laughed, 'Oh, you are young, and a woman.' "'Well,' I answered, 'this is what I mean, when I finished reading that book, it made me restless, unhappy--discontented with everything around me.' "'That is, perhaps, because you did not understand it.' "'But goodness is so simple, I can understand that always.' "'I grant you, but human life is not all perfection; unfortunately, good and evil are pretty nearly balanced on this earth, and there is nothing picturesque enough in a dead-level of goodness to interest the reader through an entire story. To attempt that, would be like painting a picture without shadows. Your real author understands the force of contrasts.' "'But a book which has so little of the virtuous and pure in it, yields up this power of contrast, by letting no sunshine into its pages,' I said. 'The fault of this work is, that it dwells too entirely on the dark passions.' "'Then you condemn it?' "'No, indeed, the pictures are too grand, the passions too strongly portrayed for that. The author, whoever he is, must be a man of powerful genius. I only wish he had softened his pictures and let in a few of the gentler sentiments.' "'And so do I.' "He spoke with emphasis, closing the book. Then I noticed that a flush was on his face, and he cast the volume from him with a gesture of dislike. "'You know the author of that book?' I said on the impulse. "'Yes, lady, I know him well--some day he shall be made the wiser, by learning your opinion.' "'Oh, I hope not. It was rash, perhaps altogether wrong. I am no critic, and only spoke as the book impressed me.' "'That is criticism,' he answered, 'and I dare say correct, but the volume is hardly worthy of so much consideration. The author is too much honored, that you have read it at all.' "I was about to answer, when Mr. Dennison rode up in his carriage, and seeing my companion, waved his hand with that cordial welcome so universal in the South. The moment he appeared, I felt chilled, and took up my embroidery, knowing well that no more conversation that I could join in, would be offered that day.