bee or humming-bird. At five in
the afternoon Zulime and Constance came.

In the weeks which followed I renewed my childhood. To Mary Isabel as to
me at her age, the cornfield was a vast mysterious forest, and the
rainbow an overpowering miracle.

"Don't they have rainbows in the city?" she asked one evening as we were
watching a glorious arch fade out of the sky above the hills.

"Not such big beautiful double ones," I replied. "They haven't room for
them in the city."

She took the same delight in the flame and flare of the Fourth of July
which I once owned. She loved to walk in the fields. Snakes, bugs, worms
and spiders enthralled her. Each hour brought its vivid message, its
wonder and its delight, and when now and again she was allowed to
explore the garden with me at night, the murk and the stars, and the
stealthily moving winds in the corn, scared, awed her. At such moments
the universe was a delicious mystery. Keeping close hold upon my hand
she whispered with excitement, "What was that, Poppie? What was that
noise? Was it a gnome?"

For her I built a "House" high in the big maple, and there she often
climbed, spending many happy hours singing to her dollies or conning
over her picture books. Her face shone down upon me radiant with life's
ecstasy. Baby Constance was to her a toy, a doll, I was her companion,
her playmate. The garden seemed fashioned for her uses, and whenever I
saw her among the flowers or sitting on the lawn, I forgot my writing,
realizing that these were golden days for me as well as for her,--days
that would pass like waves of light across the wheat.

Together with Zulime I received the house back into my affection. Once
more I thought of it as something permanent, a sure refuge in time of
trouble. It gave us both a comforting sense of security to know that we
could, at need, come back to it and live in comfort. With no hope of
attaining a larger income, saving money was earning money for us both.
In this spirit I put in another bathroom, and enlarged the
dining-room--doing much of the work with my own hands.

Nothing could be more idyllic than our daily routine that summer. Our
diversions, dependent on a love of odorous fields, colorful hills and
fruitful vines, were of arcadian content. Our wealth expressed in nuts
and apples and berries was ample. With Mary Isabel I assumed that wild
grapes were enormously important articles of food. "Without them we
might grow hungry this winte