ated as to whether the Crag wore pajamas or not, and I don't see
that I should have been surprised that he did instead of the night shirt
of our common ancestry.

He came around the side of the house out of the sun-shot mist and was
half way down the garden path before I saw him or he saw me, and I must
say that his unconcern under the circumstances was rather remarkable.

He was attired in a light blue silk pajama jacket that was open at the
throat and half way down his broad breast. He had on his usual gray
trousers, but tag's of blue trailed out and ruffled around his bare
ankles, and across his bare heels that protruded from his slippers. His
hair was in heavy tousled black curls all over his head and his gray
eyes were positively mysterious with interrupted dreams. In one hand he
carried a tin can and in the other a small pointed stick, which looked
murderously fitted for the extermination of the marauders.

I was positively nervous over the prospect of his embarrassment when he
should catch sight of me, but there was none.

"Eve!" he exclaimed, with surprise, and a ray of pure delight drove away
the dreams in his eyes. Nobody in the wide world calls me Eve but just
the Crag, and he does it in a queer, still way when he is surprised to
see me, or glad, or sorry, or moved with any kind of sudden emotion.

And queer as it is I have to positively control the desire to answer him
with the correlated title--Adam!

"I forgot to tell you yesterday that I was coming over to get the slugs
for you, dear," he said as he came down the row of roses next to mine,
squatted opposite to where I was kneeling by the bushy, suffering Neron
and began to examine the under side of each leaf carefully. He was the
most beautiful thing I have ever seen in the early light with his great
chest bare and the blue of the pajamas melting into the bronze of his
throat and calling out the gray in his eyes. I had to force myself into
being gardener rather than artist, as we laughed together over the glass
bowl and silver spoon I had brought out for the undoing of the slugs.
Some day I'm going to paint him like that!

[Illustration: His gray eyes were positively mysterious with interrupted
dreams]

I found out about the pajamas from questioning Aunt Martha discreetly.
They seemed so incongruous in relation to the usual old Henry Clay coat
and stock collar, that I had to know the reason why. Mrs. Hargrove's son
was a very worldly man, she says