d the front gate click, and
thought with relief that the wanderers had returned, then Sidney
Meeks came into view from between the rows of box. Sidney came up the
walk, wiping his forehead with a large red handkerchief, and fanning
himself with an obsolete straw hat.

"Hullo," said Henry.

"How are you?" said Meeks. "It's a corking hot day."

"Yes, it is pretty hot, but I think it's a little cooler than it was
an hour ago."

"Try walking and you won't think so."

"Set down," said Henry, pointing to the chair Sylvia had just
vacated. "Set down and stay to supper."

"I don't say I won't stay to supper, but I've got an errand first.
I've struck a new idea about wine. Haven't you got a lot of wild
grapes down back here?"

"Yes, back of the orchard."

"Well, I've got an idea. I won't say what it is now. I want to see
how it turns out first. Does Sylvia use wild grapes?"

"No, I know she won't. There are going to be bushels of Concords and
Delawares."

"Well, I want you to go down with me and let me look at your wild
grape-vines. I suppose the grapes must be set long ago. I just want
to see how many there are. I suppose I can make a deal with you for
some?"

"You can have them, and welcome. I know Sylvia will say so, too."

"Well, come along. We can go around the house."

Henry and Meeks skirted the house and the vegetable garden, then
crossed a field, and found themselves at one side of the orchard. It
was a noble old orchard. The apple, pear, and peach trees, set in
even rows, covered three acres. Between the men and the orchard grew
the wild grapes, rioting over an old fence. Henry began to say there
was a gap in the fence farther down, but the lawyer's hand gripped
his arm with sudden violence, and he stopped short. Then he as well
as Meeks heard voices. They heard the tones of a girl, trembling with
sweetness and delight, foolish with the blessed folly of life and
youth. The voice was so full of joy that at first it sounded no more
articulate than a bird's song. It was like a strophe from the
primeval language of all languages. Henry and Meeks seemed to
understand, finally, what the voice said, more from some inner
sympathy, which dated back to their youth and chorded with it, than
from any actual comprehension of spoken words.

This was what the sweet, divinely foolish girl-voice said: "I don't
know what you can see in me to love."

There was nothing in the words; it was what any girl might say; it