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Adele in the park, how different from the Doctor, the circumstances altogether different. Not at night and alone, but when the sunlight gave brilliancy and she was liable at any moment to meet some one she knew.

There was, however, a quiet nook where she hoped to be able to read undisturbed, an inconspicuous seat partially surrounded by a cultivated thicket of shrubbery. This seemed to suit her present mood, and she was soon engrossed in the little book so full of the Oriental way of looking at things, figures of speech in which the forces of nature were personified, and the most ordinary facts described in language which might lead plain people to imagine supernatural operations in nature. It was not so easy as she imagined, however, to keep her mind in focus. Of course she had to nod to several of the girls as they passed by, and with one eye still following them she observed how the birds were ruining a newly planted flower bed, nipping off the young shoots and gobbling up the seed which should be left to sprout later. Of course that had to be stopped,—she must frighten off the birds to save the plants. Returning to her book, she noticed some manuscript leaves inserted. They were in the Doctor’s handwriting and so palpably intended to be read with the text in order to elucidate further the author’s ideas, that Adele had no hesitation whatever in reading them, and became absorbed at once. They seemed like what her father had told her, only in another form. The Doctor had used Western phraseology to convey Oriental imagery and ideas,—to show how Oriental imagery may still be forcible to Western sense,—how the truth was in all, to be perceived by each after his own fashion. Of course the Doctor’s effort was crude, and well showed how such ideas may lose force when separated from the civilization which had originally called them forth; but of this Adele had no realizing sense. They spoke to her so that she could understand. She did not criticise, but sought the truth no matter how crude the effort,—thereby manifesting the prime element essential in all true criticism, namely, sympathy with the author. What she read was entitled: