nt of birds or beasts, and we live on ambrosia and nectar or the
modern equivalent. We are quite classic with our feasts by the old
fish-pond at the end of the garden.

"Cousin Margaret's garden is flaming in the August days with phlox, and
is fragrant with day lilies. There's a grass walk and a sun-dial, and
best of all, as I have said, the fish-pond.

"And while I am on the subject of gardens, Uncle Rod rises up in wrath
when people insist upon giving the botanical names to all of our lovely
blooms. He says that the pedants are taking all of the poetry out of
language, and it does seem so, doesn't it? Why should we call larkspur
_Delphinium_? or a forget-me-not _Myostis Palustria_, and would a
primrose by the river's brim ever be to you or to me _primula vulgaris_?
Uncle Rod says that a rose by any other name would _not_ smell as sweet;
and it is fortunate that the worst the botanists may do cannot spoil the
generic--_rosa_.

"And now with my talk of Uncle Rod and of Me, I am stringing this letter
far beyond all limits, and yet I have not told you half the news.

"I had a little note from Beulah, and she and Eric are at home in the
Playhouse. She loves your silver candlesticks. So many of her presents
were practical and she prefers the 'pretties.'

"You have heard, of course, that Dr. Brooks is to marry Eve Chesley. The
wedding will not take place for some time. I wonder if they will live
with Aunt Maude. I can't quite imagine Dr. Richard's wings clipped to
such a cage."

She signed herself, "Always your friend, Anne Warfield."

Far up in the Northern woods Geoffrey read her letter. He could use his
eyes a little, but most of the time he lay with them shut and Mimi read
to him, or wrote for him at his dictation. He had grown to be very
dependent on Mimi; there were even times when he had waked in the night,
groping and calling out, and she had gathered him in her arms and had
held him against her breast until he stopped shaking and shivering and
saying that he could not see.

He spoke her name now, and she came to him. He put Anne's letter in her
hand. "Read it!" and when she had read, he said, "You see she says that I
am great--and she used to say it. Am I, Mimi?"

"Oh, Geoffrey, yes."

"I want you to make it true, Mimi. Shall I begin my new book to-morrow?"

It was what she had wanted, what she had begged that he would do, but he
had refused to listen. And now he was listening to another voice!

She br