A call from Mrs. Mavick brought them to their feet.  It was time to go.  Evelyn simply said: 

“I think the valley, Mr. Burnett, looks a little different already.”

As they drove home along the murmuring river through the golden sunset, the party were mostly silent.  Only Mrs. Mavick and Philip, who sat together, kept up a lively chatter, lively because Philip was elated with the event of the day, and because the nap under the beech-tree in the open air had brightened the wits of one of the cleverest women Philip had ever met.

If the valley did seem different to Evelyn, probably she did not think so far as to own to herself whether this was owing to the outline of the story, which ran in her mind, or to the presence of the young author.

Alice and Philip were set down at the farmhouse, and the company parted with mutual enthusiasm over the success of the excursion.

“She is a much more interesting girl than I thought,” Alice admitted.  “Not a bit fashionable.”

“And she likes you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, your ears would have burned.”

“Well, I am glad, for I think she is sincere.”

“And I can tell you another thing.  I had a long talk while you were taking your siesta.  She takes an abstract view of things, judging the right and wrong of them, without reference to conventionalities or the practical obstacles to carrying out her ideas, as if she had been educated by reading and not by society.  It is very interesting.”

“Philip,” and Alice laid her hand on his shoulder, “don’t let it be too interesting.”

XIII

When Philip said that Evelyn was educated in the world of literature and not in the conflicts of life he had hit the key-note of her condition at the moment she was coming into the world and would have to act for herself.  The more he saw of her the more was he impressed with the fact that her discrimination, it might almost be called divination, and her judgment were based upon the best and most vital products of the human mind.  A selection had evidently been made for her, until she had acquired the taste, or the habit rather, of choosing only the best for herself.  Very little of the trash of literature, or the ignoble—­that is to say, the ignoble view of life—­had come into her mind.  Consequently she judged the world as she came to know it by high standards.  And her mind was singularly pure and free from vulgar images.

It might be supposed that this sort of education would have its disadvantages.  The word is firmly fixed in the idea that both for its pleasure and profit it is necessary to know good and evil.  Ignorance of the evil in the world is, however, not to be predicated of those who are familiar only with the great masterpieces of literature, for if they are masterpieces, little or great, they exhibit human nature in all its aspects.