"You missed your playtime," Barry said; "now you make the most of
it."

"Oh, no!" she answered, giving him a glimpse of serious eyes in the
half-dark, "playtime doesn't come back. But, at least, I know what I
want to do, and it will be more fun than any play. One of the wisest
men I ever knew set me thinking of these things. He's a sculptor, a
great sculptor, and he lives in an olive garden in Italy, and eats
what his peasants eat, and befriends them, and stands for their
babies in baptism, and sits with them when they're dying. My father
and I visited him about two years ago, and one day when he and I
were taking a tramp, I suddenly burst out that I envied him. I
wanted to live in an olive garden, too, and wear faded blue clothes,
and eat grapes, and tramp about the hills. He said very simply that
he had worked for twenty years to do it. 'You see, I'm a rich man,'
he said, 'and it seems that one must be rich in this world before
one dare be poor from choice. I couldn't do this if people didn't
know that I could have an apartment in Paris, and servants, and
motor-cars, and all the rest of it. It would hurt my daughters and
distress my friends. There are hundreds and thousands of unhappy
people in the world who can't afford to be poor, and if ever you get
a chance, you try it. You'll never be rich again.' So I wrote him
about a month ago that I had found MY olive garden," finished Sidney
contentedly, "and was enjoying it."

"Captain Burgoyne was older than you, Sid?" Barry questioned.
"Wouldn't he have loved this sort of life?"

"Twenty years older, yes; but he wouldn't have lived here for one