I wondered what his book was like, as I lazily watched him cross the street in the noonday sun, and then I remembered with a twinge of conscience that I had hardly written a thousand words since I came.  This soft air, redolent of spicy midsummer odors, seemed to produce an invincible indolence, even of thought.  After the struggles of the past winter, I was feeling the reaction in utter relaxation of will and purpose.  I wondered, were I in Mr. Longworth’s place, would I ever write again, from the mere love of it?  Was the end, even if that end were success, worth the pain of attaining it?  And then, fearing to question myself further, I went to my room and began to write.

Late July was very beautiful in Wauchittic.  From the ocean, a dozen miles distant, was wafted the faintest suggestion of the odor of the sea, the wide fields of lush pasture seemed to drink the sun.  All night the murmur of the little stream falling over the mill-dam, filled the dark hours with soft whispers.  The low woods, with their glittering leaves of the scrub-oak, tempted me, and I discovered fairy glades in their depths, where the grass was thin and pale, and strong ferns grew about the roots of the trees.  Sometimes Mr. Longworth would accompany me on my trips of exploration, and, happy in our youth and the gladness of summer, and forgetful of strict conventionality, we would spend long mornings together, writing and reading in an especially cosy spot at the edge of the woods back of the farm.  Mr. Longworth was growing so strong that Wilson’s position was almost entirely a sinecure, and he spent most of his time lounging in the one village store, relating remarkable stories of New York to a circle of open-mouthed idlers.  Day by day, I watched the lessening pallor and the growing health of Mr. Longworth’s face, and saw him visibly gain strength.  He could carry all the rugs and books and writing materials to our sylvan sanctum without fatigue, and he was so boyishly proud of his health that he used to exhaust himself with too long walks, for which I administered lectures that he always received submissively.  One warm morning we had spent an hour in writing.  I had grown tired, and throwing down my pen and pad, I left Mr. Longworth still at work, and strayed out into the field in the sun.  There had been no rain for days, and the locusts filled the air with their zeeing.  The wide field was dotted with golden patches of the arnica blossom, or yellow daisy, as the farmers called it.  I wandered through the hot, knee-high grass, picking handfuls of the broad yellow suns, then childishly threw them away, and pulled others, with great heads of sweet red clover, and spears of timothy too.  I was so happy.  My whole being was filled with causeless peace and gladness.  From time to time I glanced back to the shade of the oak trees, to the tall, slender figure, with the dark head bent over the white sheets of manuscript, and I sang softly a little song for very joy of my