iscovered fairy glades in
their depths, where the grass was thin and pale, and strong ferns grew
about the roots of the trees. Sometimes Mr. Longworth would accompany me
on my trips of exploration, and, happy in our youth and the gladness of
summer, and forgetful of strict conventionality, we would spend long
mornings together, writing and reading in an especially cosy spot at the
edge of the woods back of the farm. Mr. Longworth was growing so strong
that Wilson's position was almost entirely a sinecure, and he spent most
of his time lounging in the one village store, relating remarkable
stories of New York to a circle of open-mouthed idlers. Day by day, I
watched the lessening pallor and the growing health of Mr. Longworth's
face, and saw him visibly gain strength. He could carry all the rugs and
books and writing materials to our sylvan sanctum without fatigue, and
he was so boyishly proud of his health that he used to exhaust himself
with too long walks, for which I administered lectures that he always
received submissively. One warm morning we had spent an hour in writing.
I had grown tired, and throwing down my pen and pad, I left Mr.
Longworth still at work, and strayed out into the field in the sun.
There had been no rain for days, and the locusts filled the air with
their _zeeing_. The wide field was dotted with golden patches of the
arnica blossom, or yellow daisy, as the farmers called it. I wandered
through the hot, knee-high grass, picking handfuls of the broad yellow
suns, then childishly threw them away, and pulled others, with great
heads of sweet red clover, and spears of timothy too. I was so happy. My
whole being was filled with causeless peace and gladness. From time to
time I glanced back to the shade of the oak trees, to the tall, slender
figure, with the dark head bent over the white sheets of manuscript, and
I sang softly a little song for very joy of my life. I looked up to the
deep, cloudless sky, around at the wide stretch of green in the golden
sunlight, then almost unconsciously back once more to the edge of the
woods, where the spread rugs made a tiny home fit for the heart of
summertide. Nor did I guess, even then, which was the dominant note of
this wonderful chord that my life had unconsciously struck. I knew only
that the world was far more beautiful than I had ever dreamed, and still
singing under my breath the little cadence that seemed to fit the day, I
wandered slowly back, leaving a