Miss Mullett eluded him anxiously and insisted that the Doctor should examine his pulse.

“You ought never to have taken such a walk on such a hot day, Mr. Herrick.  The idea!  Why, you might have died!  Why don’t you scold him, Eve?”

Eve’s eyebrows went up.

“Why should I scold him, Carrie?  Mr. Herrick knew that I liked lemon in my tea and, being a very gallant gentleman, he obtained lemon.  You all know that I am quite heartless where my wants are concerned.”

“Well, I think it was extremely wrong, Mr. Herrick, and I shan’t touch another slice of lemon.”

“Which,” laughed Eve, “considering that you already have four pieces floating about in your cup, is truly heroic!”

After the ladies had gone the Doctor lingered, and presently, in some strange way, he found himself in the dining-room with the doors carefully closed, saying “Ha!  H’m!” and wiping his lips gratefully.  He made Wade promise to come and see him, quoted a couplet anent hospitality—­neglecting to give the author’s name—­and took his departure.  After supper Wade lighted his pipe and started in the direction of the Doctor’s house, but he never got there that evening.  For an hour or more he wandered along the quiet, almost deserted street, and smoked and thought and watched the effect of the moonlight amidst the high branches of the elms, finally finding himself back at his own gate, tapping his pipe against the post and watching the red sparks drop.

“It isn’t going to be very hard, after all,” he murmured.

XI.

June mellowed into July and July moved by in a procession of hot, languorous days and still, warm nights.  Sometimes it rained, and then the leaves and flowers, adroop under the sun’s ardor, quivered and swayed with delight and scented the moist air with the sweet, faint fragrance of their gratitude.  Often the showers came at night, and Wade, lying in bed with doors and windows open, could hear it pattering upon the leaves and drumming musically upon the shingles.  And he fancied, too, that he could hear the thankful earth drinking it in with its millions of little thirsty mouths.  After such a night he awoke to find the room filled with dewy, perfumed freshness and radiant with sunshine, while out of doors amidst the sparkling leaves the birds trilled paeans to the kindly heavens.

By the middle of July Wade had settled down comfortably into the quiet life of Eden Village.  Quiet it was, but far from hum-drum.  On the still, mirrored surface of a pool even the dip of an insect’s wing will cause commotion.  So it was in Eden Village.  On the placid surface of existence there the faintest zephyr became a gale that raised waves of excitement; the tiniest happening was an event.  It is all a matter of proportion.  Wade experienced as much agitation when a corner of the woodshed caught on fire, and he put it out with a broom, as when with