what constituted the romantic element.

And upon another subject preoccupying both Mr. Parcher and William,
their two views, though again founded upon one thought, had no real
congeniality. The preoccupying subject was the imminence of Miss Pratt's
departure;--neither Mr. Parcher nor William forgot it for an instant. No
matter what else played upon the surface of their attention, each kept
saying to himself, underneath: "This is the last night--the last night!
Miss Pratt is going away--going away to-morrow!"

Mr. Parcher's expression was peaceful. It was more peaceful than it had
been for a long time. In fact, he wore the look of a man who had been
through the mill but now contemplated a restful and health-restoring
vacation. For there are people in this world who have no respect for the
memory of Ponce de Leon, and Mr. Parcher had come to be of their number.
The elimination of William from his evenings had lightened the burden;
nevertheless, Mr. Parcher would have stated freely and openly to any
responsible party that a yearning for the renewal of his youth had not
been intensified by his daughter's having as a visitor, all summer long,
a howling belle of eighteen who talked baby-talk even at breakfast and
spread her suitors all over the small house--and its one veranda--from
eight in the morning until hours of the night long after their mothers
(in Mr. Parcher's opinion) should have sent their fathers to march them
home. Upon Mr. Parcher's optimism the effect of so much unavoidable
observation of young love had been fatal; he declared repeatedly that
his faith in the human race was about gone. Furthermore, his physical
constitution had proved pathetically vulnerable to nightly quartets,
quintets, and even octets, on the porch below his bedchamber window, so
that he was wont to tell his wife that never, never could he expect to
be again the man he had been in the spring before Miss Pratt came to
visit May. And, referring to conversations which he almost continuously
overheard, perforce, Mr. Parcher said that if this was the way HE talked
at that age, he would far prefer to drown in an ordinary fountain, and
be dead and done with it, than to bathe in Ponce de Leon's.

Altogether, the summer had been a severe one; he doubted that he could
have survived much more of it. And now that it was virtually over,
at last, he was so resigned to the departure of his daughter's lovely
little friend that he felt no regret for the s