line by mentioning the lithographer's name, but Margaret
had suddenly become interested in the movements
of a chipmunk that had crept down for the
crumbs of their luncheon, and with a woman's wit
had raised her finger to her lips to command silence
lest he should be frightened off.

They painted no more that afternoon. When the
shadows began to fall in the valley they started up
the road, picking up Oliver's easel and trap--both
had stood unmolested and would have done so all
summer with perfect safety--and Oliver walked with
Margaret as far as the bars that led into Taft's
pasture. There they bade each other good-night,
Margaret promising to be ready in the morning with
her big easel and a fresh canvas, which Oliver was
to carry, when they would both go sketching together
and make a long blessed summer day of it.

That night Oliver's upraised, restless hands felt
the shingles over his head more than once before he
could get to sleep. He had not thought he could be
any happier--but he was. Margaret's unexpected
appearance had restored to him that something which
the old life at home had always yielded. He was
never really happy without the companionship of a
woman, and this he had not had since leaving Kennedy
Square. Those he had met on rare occasions
in New York were either too conventional or selfconscious,
or they seemed to be offended at his familiar