uppose we call it the gift of second
childhood."

We sat on the porch and looked down on the lawn that sloped to
the orchard, and watched the robins run across the grass. And I
pointed out to Phyllis the very tree under which Sylvia and I had
stood the day we had our first memorable quarrel, confessing that
while at the time there was no doubt in my mind that Sylvia was
clearly at fault, I was now prepared to concede, after plenty of
reflection, that possibly she might have had a reasonable defence.
The recital of this pathetic incident led to other reminiscences
connected with the old house and its grounds, and I was hardly in
the second chapter when Mary came out and ordered us in to dinner.
Mary never invited, never requested; she merely ordered. We sat at
the table, and at a severe look from Mary I stopped fumbling with
my napkin, while Phyllis--sweet saint!--folded her hands and asked
the divine blessing. Pagan philosopher that I was, I was singularly
moved by the simple faith of these two women, and I think that when
I am led back into the fold of my family creed, a girl as young and
fair and holy as Phyllis will be the angel to guide me.

The dinner was toothsome, the environment fascinating, the
afternoon perfect, and so it came about quite naturally that I
missed the three-o'clock train. "There is nothing so disagreeable
in life," I explained apologetically to my friends, "as a hard
and fast schedule, which keeps one jumping like an electric
clock, doing sixty things every hour and never varying the
performance. Fortunately trains run every day except Sunday, and
the general order of the universe is not going to be upset
because I am not checking myself off like a section-hand."

Perhaps Mary did not wholly coincide with my argument, but she
was called away to her sewing-circle, while Phyllis and I lounged
lazily on the porch, I continuing my reminiscences. Garrulity
is not merely the prerogative of age; the privilege of the
monologue is always that of the old boy who comes back to his
childhood's home and finds in a pretty girl a charming and
attentive listener. He is a poor orator, indeed, who cannot
improve such opportunities. At a convenient lull in the flow of
discourse we went off to ride, exploring the country roads I knew
so well, and here began new matter and new reminiscences, patiently
endured by Phyllis, who was a most delightful girl. And when we
returned late in the afternoon it was directly