As he turned around I saw him throw one arm carelessly about the shoulders of the sturdy younger boy who sat next him.

When I got home I told Harriet all about what I had seen and heard.  I think I must feel when I am retailing such fascinating neighbourhood events to Harriet—­how she does enjoy them!—­I must feel very much as she does when she is urging me to have just a little more of the new gingerbread.

In the next few months I watched with indescribable interest the unfolding of the drama of Mary Starkweather.  I saw her from time to time that summer and she seemed, and I think she was, happier than ever she had been before in her whole life.  Making over her garden, selecting the “essential books,” choosing the best pictures for her rooms, even reforming the clothing of the boys, all with an emphasis upon perfect simplicity—­her mind was completely absorbed.  Occasionally Richard appeared upon the stage, a kind of absurd Greek chorus of one, who remarked what a wonderful woman this was and poked fun at himself and at the new house, and asserted that Mary could be as simple as ever she liked, he insisted on thick soup for dinner and would not sacrifice his beloved old smoking jacket upon the altar of any new idea.

“She’s a wonder, David,” he’d wind up:  “but this simple life is getting more complicated every day.”

It was in December, about the middle of the month, as I remember, that I had a note one day from Mary Starkweather.

“The next time you go to town,” it ran, “stop in and see me.  I’ve made a discovery.”

With such a note as that us my hand it appeared imperative that I go to town at once.  I discovered, to Harriet’s astonishment, that we were running out of all sorts of necessaries.

“Now, David,” she said, “you know perfectly well that you’re just making up to call on Mary Starkweather.”

“That,” I said, “relieves my conscience of a great burden.”

As I went out of the door I heard her saying:  “Why Mary Starkweather should care to live in her barn....”

It was a sparkling cold day, sun on the snow and the track crunching under one’s feet, and I walked swiftly and with a warm sense of coming adventure.

To my surprise there was no smoke in the cottage chimney, and when I reached the door I found a card pinned upon it: 

PLEASE CALL AT THE HOUSE

Mary Starkweather herself opened the door—­she had seen me coming—­and took me into the big comfortable old living-room, the big, cluttered, overfurnished living-room, with the two worn upholstered chairs at the fireplace, in which a bright log fire was now burning.  There was a pleasant litter of books and magazines, and a work basket on the table, and in the bay window an ugly but cheerful green rubber plant in a tub.

“Well!” I exclaimed.

“Don’t smile—­not yet.”