“Oh yes, I ought to be able to tell Peter all I know in two and a half months,” I answered, ignoring Tolly’s disrespect for my poet friend.

“And a lot you don’t know,” Tolly added, with the candor of real affection.  “I wish Sam, the old calf, could be weaned from his cows and take the position your dad is offering him at the Phosphate Works, so he would be able to shake a foot occasionally.  Can’t you handle him a bit, Betty?  It’s as if he just came out and looked at life and then dived back in a hollow log.”

“I—­I don’t know,” I answered, doubtfully.  A pang shot through me at the thought of any one extracting Sam from that wonderful retreat in the woods, but then also this news of the honors that were coming to Peter made me long to have Samuel Foster Crittenden come forth and take his place in the world beside his friends.  Sam, I felt sure, was made to shine, not to have his light hid under a farm basket.  Why, even Tolly, there beside me on the steps, was the head of the new Electric Light Company that Hayesboro has had a little over a year.  He did it all himself, though he had failed to pass his college examinations when he went up for them with Sam.

“I’m proud of the way you’ve been doing things, Tolly,” I added, warmly, putting my thoughts of Sam away where I keep them when I’m not using them.

“Oh, I’m just an old money-grubber and nobody’s genius child, but I’ll rustle the gold boys to get up to New York to see your play, Betty, and send you a wagon-load of florist’s spinnach on the first night,” answered Tolly, beaming at my words of praise.

“Oh, Tolly, please don’t think I’m going to write a play,” I answered, quickly.  “I’m—­well, I’m just going to tell Peter a whole lot of useful things I find out about life.  You see, Tolly, Peter’s father has so many millions of dollars that it has been almost impossible for Peter to climb over them into real life as we have.  I have to do it for him.  Please pity Peter, Tolly, and tell me what you think would be nice in his play if you find anything.”

“Well—­er—­well, I have right in stock at present a little love-interest tale I could unfold to you, Betty, about—­Help!  There comes the gentle child Edith up the street now.  I must go.  I am too coarse-grained for association with her.”  And before I could stop him he was gone through the house and out the back way.  That is the way it always is with Tolly and Edith, either they are inseparable or entirely separate.  They can’t seem to be coexistent citizens, and they have been fighting this way since they both had on rompers.  I wondered what Tolly had been doing now.

“Clyde Tolbot needn’t have gone just because I came.  I can endure him when I have other people to help me,” said Edith, as she kissed me and sat down sadly.  She is always sad when Tolly has been sinful.

“What has Tolly been doing now?” I asked her, as I put that fascinating Belgian face down on the floor and ruthlessly sat upon him, for the step was getting cold, though the sun was delicious and had drawn out a nice old bumblebee from his winter quarters to scout about the budding honeysuckle over our heads.