od gossip, or the crops,
and then Mrs. Hopper would go on silently sewing, and "Pa," his white
head bent over a "Farmer's Almanac," made long and painful calculations
on a scrap of paper in which he seemed to get much mysterious assistance
from the almanac.

Without, the cool night air touched my face gently. My head was burning
and fevered with the day's emotions, but I felt the infinite peace of
the evening calming me.

"No," I said firmly, "indeed I have decided wisely, Mr. Longworth. I am
going back to my old work cheerfully, and shall never think again of
my--my disappointment. I believe I can easily get work on my old paper,
the "_Courier_," and I have been offered an editorial position on a new
fashion paper, beside my weekly letter to the "_Red Canon Gazette_.'"
Naturally I did not tell him that I had spent all my savings of a year
on this planned vacation, when I was to finish the book that should
reimburse me.

"You shall not go back to that wretched drudgery," said Mr. Longworth,
in his impetuous, nervous manner. "Do not imagine you are ever to do it
again. Tell me," he said, lowering his voice, and leaning toward me so
that he could see my face, shaded by the vine-hung trellis. "Could you
be happy--"

We heard Mr. Hopper moving around the room uneasily, and instinctively
Mr. Longworth paused.

"Ma," said the old man, a trifle reproachfully, "I'm afraid you don't
try to make it cheerful for them young folks. Why don't you go out and
set for a spell? I guess _I'll_ go."

"Stay where you are, Joseph," said Mrs. Hopper, in loud tones of
disapproval, that were wafted through the open window to us. "Did _we_
want the old folks forever runnin' after us before _we_ was married?"
Mr. Longworth tried not to steal a mirthful glance at me, but he found
it hard to resist. "Oh! pshaw, Ma," replied the old man gently. "There
ain't none of that goin' on. He ain't a marryin' man," and we heard his
slippered feet pattering softly over the oil-clothed entry, and his mild
face beamed on us through the net door, which he held open for a moment
before he came out and seated himself in the rocking-chair.

"Well, now, this _is_ comfortable," he said, with a cheerfully social
air. "I can tell you this is a night for authors. Here's a chance for
poetry!" with a wave of his thin, weather-worn hand toward the peaceful
fields. "Made any this evenin'?" he inquired. "Ain't? well, I guess
you'll never come across a more inspirin'