vacancies of the half-settled neighborhood, investing the matter-of-fact
with mystery, and giving an unexpected charm to the unpicturesque. It
was--as Richling said, taking his place beside his wife--midspring in
March. As he spoke he noticed she had brought with her the odor of
flowers. They were pinned at her throat.

"Where did you get them?" he asked, touching them with his fingers.

Her face lighted up.

"Guess."

How could he guess? As far as he knew neither she nor he had made an
acquaintance in the neighborhood. He shook his head, and she replied:--

"The butcher."

"You're a queer girl," he said, when they had laughed.

"Why?"

"You let these common people take to you so."

She smiled, with a faint air of concern.

"You don't dislike it, do you?" she asked.

"Oh, no," he said, indifferently, and spoke of other things.

And thus they sat, like so many thousands and thousands of young pairs
in this wide, free America, offering the least possible interest to
the great human army round about them, but sharing, or believing they
shared, in the fruitful possibilities of this land of limitless bounty,
fondling their hopes and recounting the petty minutiae of their daily
experiences. Their converse was mainly in the form of questions from
Mary and answers from John.

"And did he say that he would?" etc. "And didn't you insist that he
should?" etc. "I don't understand how he could require you to," etc.,
etc. Looking at everything from John's side, as if there never could be
any other, until at last John himself laughed softly when she asked why
he couldn't take part of some outdoor man's work, and give him part of
his own desk-work in exchange, and why he couldn't say plainly that his
work was too sedentary.

Then she proposed a walk in the moonlight, and insisted she was not
tired; she wanted it on her own account. And so, when Richling had gone
into the house and returned with some white worsted gauze for her head
and neck and locked the door, they were ready to start.

They were tarrying a moment to arrange this wrapping when they found it
necessary to move aside from where they stood in order to let two
persons pass on the sidewalk.

These were a man and woman, who had at least reached middle age. The
woman wore a neatly fitting calico gown; the man, a short pilot-coat.
His pantaloons were very tight and pale. A new soft hat was pushed
forward from the left rear corner of his closely cropped head