I looked at her in astonishment.  “Truly,” I exclaimed, “that is a remarkable question.”

“I know it,” she replied, “and I suppose you are saying to yourself, ’Here is a girl who has known me less than three days, and yet she asks me to tell her about my feeling towards another woman.’  But, really, it seems to me that as you have not known that other woman three days, as much friendship and confidence might spring up in the one case as affection in the other.”

“Affection!” said I.  “Have I said anything about affection?”

“No, you have not,” she replied; “and if there isn’t any affection, of course that ends this special study on my part.”

We reached the top of the hill, but I forgot to look out upon the view.  “I think you are a strange girl,” I said, “but I like you, and I have a mind to try to answer your question.  I have not been able quite to satisfy myself about my feelings towards Mrs. Chester, but now I think I can say that I have an affection for her.”

“Good!” she exclaimed.  “I like that!  That is an honest answer if ever there was one.  But tell me why it is that you have an affection for her.  It must have been almost a case of love at first sight.”

“It isn’t easy to give reasons for such feelings,” I said.  “They spring up, as your father would say, very much like weeds.”

“Indeed they do,” she interpolated; “sometimes they grow in the middle of a gravel path where they cannot expect to be allowed to stay.”

I reflected a moment.  “I don’t mind talking about these things to you,” I said.  “It seems almost like talking to myself.”

“That is a compliment I appreciate,” she said.  “And now go on.  Why do you care for her?”

“Well,” said I, “in the first place, she is very handsome.  Don’t you think so?”

“Oh yes!  In fact, I think she is almost what might be called exactly beautiful.”

“Then she has such charming manners,” I continued.  “And she is so sensible—­although you may not think I had much chance to find out that.  Moreover, there is a certain sympathetic cordiality about her—­”

“Which, of course,” interrupted my companion, “you suppose she would not show to any man but you.”

“Yes,” said I.  “I am speaking honestly now, and that’s the way it strikes me.  Of course I may be a fool, but I did think that a sympathy had arisen between us which would not arise between her and anybody else.”

Miss Edith laughed heartily.  “I am getting to know a great deal about one side of the subject,” she said.  “And now tell me—­is that all?  I don’t believe it is.”

“No,” I answered, “it is not.  There is something more which makes her attractive to me.  I cannot exactly explain it except by saying that it is her surrounding atmosphere—­it is everything that pertains to her.  It is the life she lives, it is her home, it is the beauty and peace, the sense of charm which infuses her and everything that belongs to her.”