“The Wonder” of the Corinna Institute had never willingly made a show of her gymnastic accomplishments.  Her feats, which were so much admired, were only her natural exercise.  Gradually the dumb-bells others used became too light for her, the ropes she climbed too short, the clubs she exercised with seemed as if they were made of cork instead of being heavy wood, and all the tests and meters of strength and agility had been strained beyond the standards which the records of the school had marked as their historic maxima.  It was not her fault that she broke a dynamometer one day; she apologized for it, but the teacher said he wished he could have a dozen broken every year in the same way.  The consciousness of her bodily strength had made her very careful in her movements.  The pressure of her hand was never too hard for the tenderest little maiden whose palm was against her own.  So far from priding herself on her special gifts, she was disposed to be ashamed of them.  There were times and places in which she could give full play to her muscles without fear or reproach.  She had her special costume for the boat and for the woods.  She would climb the rugged old hemlocks now and then for the sake of a wide outlook, or to peep into the large nest where a hawk, or it may be an eagle, was raising her little brood of air-pirates.

There were those who spoke of her wanderings in lonely places as an unsafe exposure.  One sometimes met doubtful characters about the neighborhood, and stories were—­told of occurrences which might well frighten a young girl, and make her cautious of trusting herself alone in the wild solitudes which surrounded the little village..  Those who knew Euthymia thought her quite equal to taking care of herself.  Her very look was enough to ensure the respect of any vagabond who might cross her path, and if matters came to the worst she would prove as dangerous as a panther.

But it was a pity to associate this class of thoughts with a noble specimen of true womanhood.  Health, beauty, strength, were fine qualities, and in all these she was rich.  She enjoyed all her natural gifts, and thought little about them.  Unwillingly, but over-persuaded by some of her friends, she had allowed her arm and hand to be modelled.  The artists who saw the cast wondered if it would be possible to get the bust of the maiden from whom it was taken.  Nobody would have dared to suggest such an idea to her except Lurida.  For Lurida sex was a trifling accident, to be disregarded not only in the interests of humanity, but for the sake of art.

“It is a shame,” she said to Euthymia, “that you will not let your exquisitely moulded form be perpetuated in marble.  You have no right to withhold such a model from the contemplation of your fellow-creatures.  Think how rare it is to see a woman who truly represents the divine idea!  You belong to your race, and not to yourself,—­at least, your beauty is a gift not to be considered as a piece of private property.  Look at the so-called Venus of Milo.  Do you suppose the noble woman who was the original of that divinely chaste statue felt any scruple about allowing the sculptor to reproduce her pure, unblemished perfections?”