his work and he told her that he best liked
history. She asked why, and he gave a curious reason.

"Because it tells you the truth, and you don't find good men always
scoring and bad men always coming to grief. In history, good men come to
grief sometimes and bad men score."

"But you can't always be sure what is good and what is bad," she argued.

"The people who write the histories don't worry you about that," he
answered, "but just tell you what happened. And sometimes you are jolly
glad when a beast gets murdered, or his throne is taken away from him;
and sometimes you are sorry when a brave chap comes to grief, even
though he may be bad."

"Some historians are not fair, though," she said. "Some happen to feel
like you. They hate some people and some ideas, and always show them in
an unfriendly light. If you write history, you must be tremendously fair
and keep your own little whims out of it."

After their meal Estelle smoked a cigarette, much to Abel's interest.

"I never knew a girl could smoke," he said.

"Why not? Would you like one? I don't suppose a cigarette once in a way
can hurt you."

"I've smoked thousands," he told her. "And a pipe, too, for that matter.
I smoked a cigar once. I found it and smoked it right through."

"Didn't it make you ill?"

"Yes--fearfully; but I hid till I was all right again."

He smoked a cigarette, and Estelle told him that his father was a great
smoker and very fond of a pipe.

"But he wouldn't let you smoke, except now and again in holiday
times--not yet. Nobody ought to smoke till he's done growing."

"What about you, then?" asked Abel.

"I've done growing ages ago. I'm nearly twenty-eight."

He looked at her and his eyes clouded. He entered a phase of reserve.
Then she, guessing how to enchant him, suggested the next step.

"If you help me pack up now, we'll harness the pony and go down to West
Haven for a bit. I want to see the old stores I've heard such a lot
about. You must show them to me."

"Yes--part. I know every inch of them, but I can't show you my own
secret den, though."

"Do. I should love to see it."

He shook his head.

"No good asking," he said. "That's my greatest secret. You can't expect
me to tell you. Even mother doesn't know."

"I won't ask, then. I've got a den, too, for that matter--in fact, two.
One on North Hill and one in our garden."

"D'you know the lime-kiln on North Hill?"

"Rather. The bee orchis grows thereabout."