drive nails or superintend a tinner."

In this way our discussion usually ended--with each of us going his own
gait. In this instance his way led back to Chicago. "I must return to my
plumbing," he protested. "I've got some renters who are complaining of
their furnaces," and that was the end of his visit. We knew better than
to argue for delay. He was as inflexible as New England granite.

His going left a gap. We both liked to have him about. Never in the way,
never interfering with my work, he was always a stimulant. His judgment
(second only to Howells' in my estimation) kept me to my highest level.
He was the only man with whom I could discuss all my perplexities and be
enlightened.

As October came on my mother's condition called for increasing care. She
could not walk across the road and her outings were all taken in a
wheeled chair, which I pushed about the village each afternoon. She was
very happy when we were at home, but as she could neither sew nor read
she was piteously dependent upon the members of her household for
diversion. Life's walls were narrowing for her, that was sorrowfully
evident to me; and yet I did not--I would not consider the possibility
of her early passing. I thought of her as living on for many years
longer. It was her growing inability to employ her time which troubled
me and I gave the most of my afternoons to her amusement.

As my father wrote from Dakota early in October setting November 1st as
the date for his return, I began to plan another trip to New York,
feeling that it was better to go in the early autumn than to wait till
winter. "Winters are very hard on old folks in our valley," I remarked
to Zulime. To mother I said, "Our absence will not be long. We'll be
back in time for Thanksgiving," I assured her.

She dreaded our going. Clinging to us both as though she feared we might
never return she pleadingly said, "Wait till your father comes," and her
distress of mind caused me to put off our departure until father could
arrive.

These moods of depression, these periods of suffering which she could
not explain, were usually transitory, and this one soon passed. In a day
or two she was free from pain, and quite cheerful. "You may go," she
said at last, but warningly added, "Don't stay away too long!"

In spite of her smiling face, I kissed her good-by with a sense of
uneasiness, almost of guilt. "It seems a selfish act to leave her at
this time," I confessed to Zulime, "