l feeds," he laughed, passing his cup for more. They
shook hands, that they held in common so many old songs, lines familiar
to our grandmothers--"Come, dearest, the daylight hath gone;" "The
tiger's cub I'd bind with a chain." They sang till the daylight was
gone, and then went forth laughingly to feed the stock. But the
Professor left off his part of the singing before the work was
completed. The shadow of the future had again fallen upon him, and he
could not shift from under it.

"Look here," he said, "you must go home with me. Do you understand?"

"I think I do, and I'll go anywhere with you."

"Idiomatic, and accommodating. Put her there!" he cried, striking hands
with Milford. "Ha! how is that for idiom? Stay by me, gentle keeper, my
soul is heavy, and I fain would--would duck." He leaned against the barn
door and shook. Milford clapped him on the shoulder, and shook with him.

Across a field, through a wood and along a grassy slope, they went,
toward the Professor's home, passing a house which schoolboys said was
haunted. The Professor talked philosophy. He had a religious theory,
newly picked up on the way: If we die suddenly at night, dreaming a
sweet dream, we continue the dream throughout eternity--heaven. If we
die dreaming a troubled dream, we go on dreaming it after death--hell.
Moral, then let us strive to live conducively to pleasant dreams.
Milford agreed that, as a theory, it was good enough. Nearly anything
was good enough for a theory. But wise men had summed up the future, and
had died trusting in their creed. The Professor hung back at the word
future. The future was now too near to be discussed as a speculation. He
saw it shining through the window of his house. He heard it in the
slamming of a door.

"Well, here we are," he said, unwinding a chain from about a post, and
opening a gate. "Step in. We will sit on the veranda--cooler than in the
house."

The door opened, and a large woman stepped out upon the veranda. Seeing
who came, she uttered one of anger's unspellable words, a snort. She was
a good woman, no doubt, but she was of the class who, in the old days,
lent virtue to the ducking stool. In short, she was one who deemed
herself the most abused of all earthly creatures, a scold. Pretending
not to see her husband, she asked Milford what he wanted.

"Mrs. Dolihide," said the Professor, "this is my very dear friend, Mr.
Milford, our neighbor, and a man who has lived over most of the g