dows.

Tufik approached, uncertainty changing to certainty. The engine was
started now. Oh, for a second of time! He was at the window now, peering
into the darkness.

"Miss Tish!" he said breathlessly. No one answered. We hardly breathed.
And then suddenly Aggie sneezed! "Miss Pilk!" he shouted in delight. "My
mothers! My so dear friends--"

The machine jerked, started, moved slowly off. He ran beside it, a hand
on the door. Tish bent forward to speak, but Charlie Sands put his hand
over her mouth.

And so we left him, standing in the street undecided, staring after us
wistfully, uncertainly--the suitcase, full of Cluny-lace centerpieces,
crocheted lace, silk kimonos, and embroidered bedspreads, in his hand.

That night we hid in a hotel and the next day we started for Europe. We
heard nothing from Tufik; but on the anniversary of Mr. Wiggins's death,
while we were in Berlin, Aggie received a small package forwarded from
home. It was a small lace doily, and pinned to it was a card. It read:--

For the sadness, Miss Pilk!

TUFIK.

Aggie cried over it.

THE SIMPLE LIFERS

I

I suppose there is something in all of us that harks back to the soil.
When you come to think of it, what are picnics but outcroppings of
instinct? No one really enjoys them or expects to enjoy them, but with
the first warm days some prehistoric instinct takes us out into the
woods, to fry potatoes over a strangling wood fire and spend the next
week getting grass stains out of our clothes. It must be instinct; every
atom of intelligence warns us to stay at home near the refrigerator.

Tish is really a child of instinct. She is intelligent enough, but in a
contest between instinct and brains, she always follows her instinct.
Aggie under the same circumstances follows her heart. As for me, I
generally follow Tish and Aggie, and they've led me into some curious
places.

This is really a sort of apology, because, whereas usually Tish leads
off and we follow her, in the adventure of the Simple Life we were all
equally guilty. Tish made the suggestion, but we needed no urging. As
you know, this summer two years ago was a fairly good one, as summers
go,--plenty of fair weather, only two or three really hot spells, and
not a great deal of rain. Charlie Sands, Tish's nephew, went over to
England in June to report the visit of the French President to London
for his newspaper, and Tish's automobile had been sent to the factory to