To you the words
'England'--and the 'Empire'--represent one set of pictures--all bright
and magnificent--like the Christmas Bazaar. To John Barton and me"--she
smiled--"they represent another. We too have seen the lights, and the
candles, and the toys; we have admired them, as you have; but we know
the reality is not there. The reality is in the dark streets, where men
tramp, looking for work; it is in the rooms where their wives and
children live stifled and hungry--the rooms where our working folk
die--without having lived."
Her eyes, above her pale cheeks, had opened to their fullest extent--the
eyes of a seer. They held Diana. So did the voice, which was the voice
of one in whom tragic passion and emotion are forever wearing away the
physical frame, as the sea waves break down a crumbling shore.
Suddenly Diana bent over her, and took her hands.
"I wonder why you thought me worth talking to like this?" she said,
impetuously.
"I liked you!" said Marion Vincent, simply. "I liked you as you talked
last night. Only I wanted to add some more pictures to your
picture-book. _Your_ set--the popular one--is called _The Glories of
England_.
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