EVER SINCE THE TRAGEDY of six years ago there had been forming in the mind of Emmeline Lestrange a something—shall I call it a deep mistrust? She had never been clever; lessons had saddened and wearied her, without making her much the wiser. Yet her mind was of that order into which profound truths come by short-cuts. She was intuitive.
Great knowledge may lurk in the human mind without the owner of the mind being aware. He or she acts in such or such a way, or thinks in such and such a manner from intuition; in other words, as the outcome of the profoundest reasoning.
When we have learnt to call storms, storms, and death, death, and birth, birth, when we have mastered the sailor’s horn-book, and Mr. Piddington’s law of cyclones, Ellis’s anatomy, and Lewer’s midwifery, we have already ma
