“David, that man’s wife doesn’t seem to be sorry because he comes home drunken every week or two!  I talked with her about it and what do you think she said?  She said she knew it was wrong, but she intimated that when he was in that state she loved—­liked—­him all the better.  Is it believable?  She said:  ’Perhaps you won’t understand—­it’s wrong, I know, but when he comes home that way he seems so full of—­life.  He—­he seems to understand me better then!’ She was heartbroken, one could see that, but she would not admit it.  I leave it to you, David, what can anyone do with a woman like that?  How is the man ever to overcome his habits?”

It is a strange thing, when we ask questions directly of life, how often the answers are unexpected and confusing.  Our logic becomes illogical!  Our stories won’t turn out.

She told much more about her interview:  the neat home, the bees in the orchard, the well-kept garden.  “When he’s sober,” she said, “he seems to be a steady, hard worker.”

After that I desired more than ever to see deep into the life of the strange bee-man.  Why was he what he was?

And at last the time came, as things come to him who desires them faithfully enough.  One afternoon not long ago, a fine autumn afternoon, when the trees were glorious on the hills, the Indian summer sun never softer, I was tramping along a wood lane far back of my farm.  And at the roadside, near the trunk of an oak tree, sat my friend, the bee-man.  He was a picture of despondency, one long hand hanging limp between his knees, his head bowed down.  When he saw me he straightened up, looked at me, and settled back again.  My heart went out to him, and I sat down beside him.

“Have you ever seen a finer afternoon?” I asked.

He glanced up at the sky.

“Fine?” he answered vaguely, as if it had never occurred to him.

I saw instantly what the matter was; the exuberant bee-man was in process of transformation into the shy bee-man.  I don’t know exactly how it came about, for such things are difficult to explain, but I led him to talk of himself.

“After it is all over,” he said, “of course I am ashamed of myself.  You don’t know, Mr. Grayson, what it all means.  I am ashamed of myself now, and yet I know I shall do it again.”

“No,” I said, “you will not do it again.”

“Yes, I shall.  Something inside of me argues:  Why should you be sorry?  Were you not free for a whole afternoon?”

“Free?” I asked.

“Yes—­free.  You will not understand.  But every day I work, work, work.  I have friends, but somehow I can’t get to them; I can’t even get to my wife.  It seems as if a wall hemmed me in, as if I were bound to a rock which I couldn’t get away from, I am also afraid.  When I am sober I know how to do great things, but I can’t do them.  After a few glasses—­I never take more—­I not only know I can do great things, but I feel as though I were really doing them.”