room with his sister at the Manor on the Hudson and travel with her a
year, it is not the same as being born next door to him, as in the case
of Sam, for instance. But then I ought not to compare Peter and Sam.
Peter is of so much finer clay than Sam. Just thinking about clay made
me remember those unspeakable boots of Sam's I had encountered out on
the road, and again I determinedly turned my thoughts back to that
wonderful afternoon with Peter at the Astor a few short days ago. Miss
Greenough kept telling Mabel and me all over Europe to look at
everything as material to build nests of pleasant thoughts for our souls
to rest in, as Ruskin directed in the book she had. I've made one that
will last me for life of Peter, who is the most beautiful man in the
whole wide world; also of the yellow shade on the Astor lamp, the
fountain, and the best chicken sandwich I ever ate. It will be a warmer
place to plump down in than most of the picture-galleries and cathedrals
I had used for nest-construction purposes at Miss Greenough's direction.

Yes, I drew my hand away from Peter's, but a little thing like that
would never stop a poet; and before the waiter had quite swept us out
with the rest of the tea paraphernalia to make way for that of dinner he
had made me see that I was positively necessary to his career,
especially as both his father and Mabel are so unsympathetic. It is a
great happiness to a woman to feel necessary to a man, though she may
not enjoy it entirely.

"Oh, I know I can write it all--all that is in my heart if I feel that
it is--is for you, dearest dear Betty," was the last thing that Peter
said as he put me on a train headed for the Harpeth Valley that night.

I didn't answer--I don't know that I ever did answer Peter anything, but
he never noticed that when he thought of how my loving him would help