his teaching. I took it to
Frances, who read it, happily.

"I am so glad, Dave," she told me. "This has been the most lovely summer
one could imagine, and Baby Paul is wonderfully well. I hope the New
York milk will agree with him. I am so splendidly strong and well that I
think I shall again make rapid progress. I am afraid I must have lost a
great deal during this long idle time. Dave! Dave! I'm going to work so
hard! I know I shall be able to sing again, and--and I shall owe it all
to you!"

So we had, again, thirty-six hours, sadly lessened by the two nights of
sleep, and we conscientiously said good-by to the cows and calves, and
to such chickens as we had not devoured, and to the lake and the woods
and the twittering swallows and the sparrows on the dusty road. Eulalie
had grown stout and burned to an Indian hue. She kissed Mrs. Gobbins on
both cheeks and shed a tear or two. I stopped the carriage, that
conveyed us to the station, in front of the blacksmith's shop. We had
become friends, and he wished us a pleasant journey and a happy return
next year. Near the station, in the narrow road, we had to turn aside,
nearly into the ditch, to allow the passing of a large automobile. In
its driver I recognized Mr. O'Flaherty, who owned the garage and
occupied half of the second floor. He waved a hand at me and grinned,
winking, leaving me to reflect on the thoroughly excusable nature of
certain murders. His big car was full of sporty-looking youths and
flashily dressed women. I am happy to say that Frances never looked his
way.

Then we went on board the train and the beautiful country began to slip
by us, and a certain element of sadness came at the idea of leaving it,
though it was comforting to think that now I should see Frances every
day. But I should sit on the meagerly upholstered chairs instead of
occupying the veranda's rocker or the moss-strewn boulders on the hills.
The freedom of the country would be gone, and its inspiration and
delight.

"Look!" said Frances to me, suddenly. "There's a woman on the third
seat, on the other side of the aisle, who's reading 'Land o' Love.'"

"After all these months," I commented.

"People ought to read it forever, Dave," she assured me, "and I think
they will. I'm so proud of you!"

"Well, my publishers tell me the book is flowing out as fast as ever.
Jamieson says it will sell a hundred and fifty thousand," I told her.
"You see that I am now in Easy Street and can a