want you
at the house. Rig yourself up; I'll wait."

Upon benches and in chairs, and lolling on the thick grass, Milford
found Mrs. Stuvic's summer family. They told jokes and sang vaudeville
songs and slyly tickled one another's necks with spears of timothy,
frolicking in the shade while time melted away in the sun. The ladies
came forward to shake hands. They called Milford a stranger. They
inquired as to the health of the young woman in Antioch. He disclaimed
all knowledge of a woman in Antioch. They knew better, shaking their
fingers at him. Blakemore and Mrs. Stuvic entered upon a harangue.
Milford sat down on a bench with Mrs. Goodwin and Gunhild. Although
under the eye of the "discoverer," the girl had shaken hands warmly with
him. Between them there was a quiet understanding, and he was at ease.
Mrs. Blakemore sat in a rocking chair that threatened to tip over on the
uneven ground. She liked the uncertainty, she said. It gave her
something to think about. Mrs. Goodwin had read during all the forenoon,
and was sententious. It would soon be time for her to return to the
city, and she felt that she wore a yellow leaf in her hair. She was
anxious to return, of course, but to go away from a sweet season's
death-bed was always a sad departure. Mr. Milford, she said, would
attend the summer's funeral.

"I will help dig the grave," he replied.

She thanked him for following her idea. So few men had the patience to
fondle the whimsical children of a woman's mind. When they crept out to
the Doctor he scouted them back to bed, and there they lay trembling,
not daring to peep out at him. Some men thought it a manly quality to
despise a pretty conceit, but it was pretty conceits that made marble
live, that made a canvas breathe. At one time she had been led to
believe that the realist was the man of the hour. And indeed, he
was--just for one hour. And the veritist--what was he? One whose soul
was kept cool in a moldy cellar. None but the artist had a right to
speak. And what was art? A semblance of truth more beautiful than the
truth. But writers were often afraid to be artists, even at the
promptings of an artistic soul. They were told that women would not read
them, and man must write for woman. What nonsense! Take up a book and
find the beautiful passages marked. A woman has read it.

"I can make a great noise in shallow water," said Milford, "but if I
follow you, you'll lead me out over my head. I believe you, howeve