Miss McDonald looked sharply around at Philip and remarked:  “Yes, that’s just it.  It is very lovely, like almost any outdoors, if you will give yourself up to it.  You remember, Evelyn, how fascinating the Arizona desert was?  But there was a romantic addition to the colored desolation because the Spaniards and the Jesuits had been there.  Now this place lacks traditions, legends, romance.  You have to bring your romance with you.”

“And that is the reason you read here?”

“One reason.  Especially romances.  This charming scenery and the summer sounds of running water and birds make a nice accompaniment to the romance.”

“But mamma says,” Evelyn interrupted, “there is plenty of legend here, and tradition and flavor, Indians and early settlers, and even Aunt Hepsy.”

“Well, I confess they don’t appeal to me.  And as for Indians, Parkman’s descriptions of those savages made me squirm.  And I don’t believe there was much more romance about the early settlers than about their descendants.  Isn’t it true, Mr. Burnett, that you must have a human element to make any country interesting?”

Philip glanced at Evelyn, whose bright face was kindled with interest in the discussion, and thought, “Good heavens! if there is not human interest here, I don’t know where to look for it,” but he only said: 

“Doubtless.”

“And why don’t you writers do something about it?  It is literature that does it, either in Scotland or Judea.”

“Well,” said Philip, stoutly, “they are doing something.  I could name half a dozen localities, even sections of country, that travelers visit with curiosity just because authors have thrown that glamour over them.  But it is hard to create something out of nothing.  It needs time.”

“And genius,” Miss McDonald interjected.

“Of course, but it took time to transform a Highland sheep-stealer into a romantic personage.”

Miss McDonald laughed.  “That is true.  Take a modern instance.  Suppose Evangeline had lived in this valley!  Or some simple Gretchen about whose simple story all the world is in sympathy!”

“Or,” thought Philip, “some Evelyn.”  But he replied, looking at Evelyn, “I believe that any American community usually resents being made the scene of a romance, especially if it is localized by any approach to reality.”

“Isn’t that the fault mostly of the writer, who vulgarizes his material?”

“The realists say no.  They say that people dislike to see themselves as they are.”

“Very likely,” said Miss McDonald; “no one sees himself as others see him, and probably the poet who expressed the desire to do so was simply attitudinizing.—­[Robert Burns:  “Oh! wha gift the Giftie gie us; to see o’rselves as others see us.”  Ed.]—­By the way, Mr. Burnett, you know there is one place of sentiment, religious to be sure, not far from here.  I hope we can go some day to see the home of the ‘Mountain Miller.’”