She looked at me a moment, and said, "I am not so sure. I don't think of anything else. I am always thinking of it. It prevents me from thinking of things that are nearer home, things that I ought to attend to. That is a kind of craziness."
"The cure for it is to go," I said.
"I have a faith that I shall go. I have a cousin in Europe!" she announced.
We turned over some more photographs, and I asked her if she had always lived at Grimwinter.
"Oh, no, sir," said Miss Spencer. "I have spent twenty-three months in Boston."
I answered, jocosely, that in that case foreign lands would probably prove a disappointment to her; but I quite failed to alarm her.
"I know more about them than you might think," she said, with her shy, neat little smile. "I mean by reading; I have read a great deal. I have not only read Byron; I have read histories and guide books. I know I shall like it "
"I understand your case," I rejoined. " You have the native American passion,—the passion for the picturesque. With us, I think it is primordial,—antecedent to experience. Experience comes and only shows us something we have dreamt of."
"I think that is very true," said Caroline Spencer. "I have dreamt of everything; I shall know it all!"
"I am afraid you have wasted a great deal of time."
"Oh, yes, that has been my great wickedness."
