talk about myself next time," he said, as he turned to go down the path.

I wondered what his book was like, as I lazily watched him cross the
street in the noonday sun, and then I remembered with a twinge of
conscience that I had hardly written a thousand words since I came. This
soft air, redolent of spicy midsummer odors, seemed to produce an
invincible indolence, even of thought. After the struggles of the past
winter, I was feeling the reaction in utter relaxation of will and
purpose. I wondered, were I in Mr. Longworth's place, would I ever write
again, from the mere love of it? Was the end, even if that end were
success, worth the pain of attaining it? And then, fearing to question
myself further, I went to my room and began to write.

Late July was very beautiful in Wauchittic. From the ocean, a dozen
miles distant, was wafted the faintest suggestion of the odor of the
sea, the wide fields of lush pasture seemed to drink the sun. All night
the murmur of the little stream falling over the mill-dam, filled the
dark hours with soft whispers. The low woods, with their glittering
leaves of the scrub-oak, tempted me, and I discovered 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