Marsh shook his head, sending up a meditative puff of smoke.  “If you want to know how it really strikes me, I’ll have to say it sounds plain sleepy to me.  Deep and quieting all right, sure enough.  But so’s opium.  And in my experience, most things just get duller and duller, the more familiar they are.  I don’t begin to have time in my life for the living I want to do, my own self!  I can’t let my grandmothers and grandfathers come shoving in for another whirl at it.  They’ve had their turn.  And my turn isn’t a minute too long for me.  Your notion looks to me . . . lots of old accepted notions look like that to me . . . like a good big dose of soothing syrup to get people safely past the time in their existences when they might do some sure-enough personal living on their own hook.”  He paused and added in a meditative murmur, “That time is so damn short as it is!”

He turned hastily to the old lady with an apology.  “Why, I beg your pardon!  I didn’t realize I had gone on talking aloud.  I was just thinking along to myself.  You see, your soothing syrup is working on me, the garden, the sun, the stillness, all the grandmothers and grandfathers sitting around.  I am almost half asleep.”

“I’m an old maid, I know,” said Cousin Hetty piquantly.  “But I’m not a proper Massachusetts old maid.  I’m Vermont, and a swear-word or two don’t scare me.  I was brought up on first-hand stories of Ethan Allen’s talk, and . . .”

Marise broke in hastily, in mock alarm, “Now, Cousin Hetty, don’t you start in on the story of Ethan Allen and the cowshed that was too short.  I won’t have our city visitors scandalized by our lack of . . .”

Cousin Hetty’s laughter cut her short, as merry and young a sound as the voice of the brook.  “I hadn’t thought of that story in years!” she said.  She and Marise laughed together, looking at each other.  But they said nothing else.

“Aren’t you going to tell us?” asked Mr. Welles with a genuine aggrieved surprise which tickled Cousin Hetty into more laughter.

“I shall not rest day or night, till I have found someone who knows that story,” said Marsh, adding, “Old Mrs. Powers must know it.  And she will love to tell it to me.  It is evidently the sort of story which is her great specialty.”

They all laughed, foolishly, light-heartedly.

Marise consciously delighted in the laughter, in the silly, light tone of their talk, in the feeling of confidence and security which bathed her as warmly as the new wine of the spring sunshine.  She thought passingly, swiftly, with her habitual, satiric wonder at her own fancifulness, of her earlier notions about steel blades and passes and parries, and being afraid to walk down the hall with her “opponent” back of her.