e comes home that way he seems so full of--life. He--he seems
to understand me better then!' She was heartbroken, one could see that,
but she would not admit it. I leave it to you, David, what can anyone do
with a woman like that? How is the man ever to overcome his habits?"

It is a strange thing, when we ask questions directly of life, how often
the answers are unexpected and confusing. Our logic becomes illogical!
Our stories won't turn out.

She told much more about her interview: the neat home, the bees in the
orchard, the well-kept garden. "When he's sober," she said, "he seems to
be a steady, hard worker."

After that I desired more than ever to see deep into the life of the
strange bee-man. Why was he what he was?

And at last the time came, as things come to him who desires them
faithfully enough. One afternoon not long ago, a fine autumn afternoon,
when the trees were glorious on the hills, the Indian summer sun never
softer, I was tramping along a wood lane far back of my farm. And at the
roadside, near the trunk of an oak tree, sat my friend, the bee-man. He
was a picture of despondency, one long hand hanging limp between his
knees, his head bowed down. When he saw me he straightened up, looked at
me, and settled back again. My heart went out to him, and I sat down
beside him.

"Have you ever seen a finer afternoon?" I asked.

He glanced up at the sky.

"Fine?" he answered vaguely, as if it had never occurred to him.

I saw instantly what the matter was; the exuberant bee-man was in
process of transformation into the shy bee-man. I don't know exactly how
it came about, for such things are difficult to explain, but I led him
to talk of himself.

"After it is all over," he said, "of course I am ashamed of myself. You
don't know, Mr. Grayson, what it all means. I am ashamed of myself now,
and yet I know I shall do it again."

"No," I said, "you will not do it again."

"Yes, I shall. Something inside of me argues: Why should you be sorry?
Were you not free for a whole afternoon?"

"Free?" I asked.

"Yes--free. You will not understand. But every day I work, work, work. I
have friends, but somehow I can't get to them; I can't even get to my
wife. It seems as if a wall hemmed me in, as if I were bound to a rock
which I couldn't get away from, I am also afraid. When I am sober I know
how to do great things, but I can't do them. After a few glasses--I
never take more--I not only know I can do great th