e air still held the
heat of the day. He came out into the road a quarter of a mile below
Mrs. Stuvic's house. It was too dark to go back through the woods; there
were numerous stumps, tangled vines, and the keen briar of the wild
gooseberry. The grass field further along was drenched with dew. He
would pass the house and take the road through the hickory grove. As he
drew near, he heard the piano. It reminded him of an old box that had
been hauled over the mountains and set up in a mining camp. The red
lantern swung from the eaves of the veranda. Some one began to sing, and
he halted at the gate. Why make an outcast of himself? he mused. He went
into the yard, and stood there. Who was he, to be sulking? What right
had he, a laborer, to expect anything? They had made him a gift of their
attention. In the city, they would not have noticed him. He would go in,
a nobody, and pick up a crumb of entertainment. The door stood open.
Mrs. Blakemore saw him. She came out with a smile.

"Oh, I thought you would come if you could," she said. "So kind of you.
Come in."

The first person whom he saw upon entering the room was the Professor,
in earnest conversation with the "discoverer." He was telling her of the
pleasure it would give him to have her meet his wife. They would strike
up a friendship, both being patronesses of art and intellect. But his
wife was a great home-body. She rarely went out; she was contented to
have him represent her with his praises. And he thought that it was
pardonable in a man to praise his wife. He offered no apology for it.
Romance had not deserted his fireside. A fresh bow of blue ribbon was
ever at the throat of his married life. At this moment he spied Milford,
and blustered up to greet him. It was not enough to say that he was
pleased; he was delighted. He grasped Milford's hand and shook it
warmly. He spoke of Milford's charming visit to his home; it was an
honor that his family keenly appreciated. "Oh, you are acquainted with
Mrs. Goodwin. Yes, I remember now, you paid her a deserved compliment.
He spoke of your great gifts, madam."

Gunhild was not in the room. Footsteps came down the passage-way, and
Milford's eyes flew to the floor. Some one at the piano loosened a dam,
and let flow a merry rivulet, and into the room danced Mrs. Stuvic, her
head high, and her back as straight as an ironing board. The children
shrieked with laughter, and the men and women clapped their hands. She
was oblivi