is like the mirage that you read about yesterday; it fades and flits out of your grasp, as you travel toward it.  When we go home I will read you something which Emerson has said concerning this same lovely ignis fatuus; for I can remember only a few words:  ’What splendid distance, what recesses of ineffable pomp and loveliness in the sunset!  But who can go where they are, or lay his hand, or plant his foot thereon?  Off they fall from the round world forever.’  Felix, I suppose it is because we see all the imperfections and inequalities of objects close at hand, put the fairy film of air like a silvery mist hides these when it a distance; and we are charmed with the heightened beauties, which alone are visible.”

Edna’s eyes went back to the painting, and rested there; and little Hattie, who had been gazing up at her governess in curious perplexity, pulled her brother’s sleeve and said: 

“Bro’ Felix, do you understand all that?  I guess I don’t; for I know when I am hungry (and seems to me I always am); why, when I am hungry the closer I get to my dinner the nicer it looks!  And then there was that hateful, spiteful old Miss Abby Tompkins, that mamma would have to teach you!  Ugh!  I have watched her many a time coming up the street, (you know she never would ride in stages for fear of pickpockets,) and she always looked just as ugly as far off as I could see her as when she came close to me—­”

A hearty laugh cut short Hattie’s observation; and, coming forward, Sir Roger Percival put his hand on her head, saying: 

“How often children tumble down ’the step from the sublime to the ridiculous,’ and drag staid, dignified folks after them?  Miss Earl, I have been watching your little party for some time, listening to your incipient art-lecture.  You Americans are queer people; and when I go home I shall tell Mr. Ruskin that I heard a little boy criticizing ‘The Heart of the Andes,’ and quoting from ’Modern Painters.’  Felix, as I wish to be accurate, will you tell me your age?”

The poor sensitive cripple imagined that he was being ridiculed, and he only reddened and frowned and bit his thin lips.

Edna laid her hand on his shoulder, and answered for him.

“Just thirteen years old; and though Mr. Ruskin is a distinguished exception to the rule that ’prophets are not without honor, save in their own country,’ I think he has no reader who loves and admires his writings more than Felix Andrews.”

Here the boy raised his eyes and asked: 

“Why is it that prophets have no honor among their own people?  Is it because they too have to be seen from a great distance in order to seem grand?  I heard mamma say the other day that if some book written in America had only come from England everybody would be raving about it.”

“Some other time, Felix, we will talk of that problem.  Hattie, you look sleepy.”

“I think it will be lunch time before we get home,” replied the yawning child.