o sleep.

From that fatal night until the afternoon of Peter's arrival, I saw Sam
only three times, and those when there were many others with us. I was
so sweet and submissive to him that I saw I alarmed him greatly.

Peter arrived according to schedule and was met in the manner planned
by our friends. As he stood on the train platform just behind a woman
and a baby, I saw his great dark eyes, that seem fairly to glow out of
his beautiful face, eagerly race over the crowd. When they rested on me
they lit with what I thought was perfect joy until I saw them find Sam a
few seconds later. That was the real thing, and I never loved Peter
better than when I saw him hold Sam's hand in his while he was greeting
me in a suppressed, lover-like way and was being introduced to people.
Sam was also radiant. Peter and Sam and I are the eternal triangle that
Peter is always talking into plots for plays--only Sam is the apex
instead of me. Isn't it beautiful to have it that way?

III

THE BOOK OF LAUGHTER

Hayesboro took Peter into its heart of hearts and then sighed for more
to give him. This town is like the old man's horse whose natural gait is
running away when it is not asleep. Peter woke it up and it took the bit
in its mouth and bolted with him, while Peter clung to the saddle and
had the time of his young poetic life.

Mother accepted Peter with her usual placidity. She took him into her
room and I suppose she examined him physically, for I saw her give him a
dose of sarsaparilla tea every morning he was with us. I bought her five
spools of the finest silk thread, ranging in shade from gray to
lavender, to begin on a crocheted tie and pair of socks for him. Daddy
was as good as gold to him and fell immediately into Judge Vandyne's
attitude toward him. I knew he would. Eph maintained the dignity of the
haphazard family at meal-times, and waited on Peter worshipfully at all
others. The black beauty in the kitchen was heard to remark to the
house-girl:

"I hope that white man's skin will stretch, for I shore am going to
stuff it. He am a insult to any respectable skillet or pot." She did,
and at times I trembled for the poet.

He read to Miss Henrietta Spain's school the poem on "Space" which the
_Literary Opinion_ had copied; and he was the greatest possible success.
Most of it I feel sure the school didn't understand. But just as he
finished the last two lines--those lines the magazine had called "as
perfect