"You mustn't stay here on my account; I can take
care of myself."

Here spoke the stark spirit of the man. Accustomed to provide for
himself in camp and on the trail, he saw no reason why he should not
contrive to live here in the sheltered village, surrounded by his
friends; but Zulime insisted upon his retaining our housekeeper, and to
this he consented, although he argued against it. "I've been keeping
house alone for six years out there in Dakota; I guess I can do as well
here."

"All right, father," I said, "we'll go, but if you need me let me know."

A return to the city did not interrupt my writing. My new novel now had
entire possession of me. So far as my mornings were concerned I was
forgetful of everything else--and yet, often, as I put aside my work for
the day, I caught myself saying, "_Now I must write to mother_,"--and a
painful clutch came into my throat as I realized, once again, that I no
longer had a mother waiting for a letter. For twenty years no matter
where I had been or what I had been doing I had written to her an almost
daily message and now she was no longer in my reach!--Was she near me on
some other plane?

The good friendship of the Eagles' Nest Campers was of the highest value
to me at this time. Without them Chicago would have been a desert. Henry
Fuller's gay spirit, Lorado's swift wit and the good fraternal
companionship of Charles Francis Browne were of daily comfort; but
above all others I depended upon my wife whose serenely optimistic
spirit carried me over many a deep slough of despond. How I leaned upon
her! Her patience with me was angelic.

A writer, like an artist, is apt to be a selfish brute, tending to
ignore everything which does not make for the progress of his beloved
manuscript. He resents every interruption every hindering distraction,
as a hellish contrivance, maliciously designed to worry or obstruct
him--At least I am that way. That I was a burden, an intolerable burden
to my wife, at times--many times--I must admit--but she understood and
was charitable. She defended me as best she could from interruption and
smoothed my daily course with deft hand. Slowly my novel began to take
shape and as I drew farther away from the remorseful days which made my
work seem selfish and vain, I recovered an illogical cheerfulness.

We saw very few Chicago people and in contrast with our previous
"season" in New York our daily walk was uneventful, almost rural, in its
quiet