and felt that the cry of his
heart drowned all sounds of earth. "If it were only different," he said
to himself, over and over again. "When she knows, what will she think?
Must she know? Perhaps not--I hope not. When it is all over, I will kill
it in my own breast." He was conscious of the theatrical. He was on the
stage. Glow-worms were his footlights; his orchestra was deep-hidden in
the grass. "Why can't a man be genuine?" he asked himself. "Why does a
heart put on, talk to itself, and strut?"

In the road he met Mrs. Blakemore walking with Bobbie. The boy had a
long stick, pushing it on the ground in front of himself. He called it
his plow. His mother cautioned him. He might hurt himself. The stick
struck a lump in the road and punched him. He howled just as Milford
came up.

"I told you not to shove that stick. And now you've nearly ruined
yourself. Here's Mr. Milford. Perhaps he will carry you."

Milford took the boy on his back. "You are my horse," said the boy,
whimpering. They turned toward the house, Mrs. Blakemore striving to
keep step with Milford. "Don't go so fast. I can't keep step with you,"
she said.

"Get up," the boy commanded.

"How long do you expect to stay?" Milford asked.

"I don't know," she answered. "George is away on a tour, and I am to
wait till I hear from him. I don't think I'll be here but a few days
longer. I ought to put Bobbie in school."

"We'll have a good deal more of warm weather," Milford said; "and
October out here I should think is the finest time of the year."

"Oh, yes, but you know we must get back. After all, the summer spent in
the country is a hardship. We give up everything for the sake of being
out of doors. Put him down when he gets heavy."

"He's all right. Yes, hardship in many ways. But hardships make us
stronger; still, I don't know that we need to be much stronger. We are
strong enough now for our weak purposes."

"You mean spiritually stronger, don't you? Well, I don't know. But, of
course, we are more meditative when we have been close to nature, and
that always gives us a sort of spiritual help. But the time out here
might be spent to great advantage, in reading and serious converse. As
it is, however, people seem ashamed to talk anything but nonsense. They
hoot at anything that has a particle of sentiment in it. And as for
art--well, so few persons know anything about art. And on this account I
shall miss Mrs. Goodwin so much. She talked beautifull