While he had been getting the corn out in the garden, and preparing it to be cooked, he had reflected upon Sylvia’s unaccountable emotion and her assertion that there was no reason for it, and he realized his masculine height.  He knew that it would have been impossible for him to lose control of himself and then declare that there was no cause; to sway like a reed driven by the wind.

Henry was rather taken by this idea.  When he had returned to his station on the porch he was thinking how women were reeds driven by the winds of their emotions, and really, in a measure, irresponsible.  If he had again found Sylvia with her apron over her face, he was quite prepared to be very tender, but he was relieved to see that the paroxysm had passed.  He did not smile as he sat down, neither did Sylvia.  It was rather unusual for them to smile at each other, but they exchanged looks of peaceful accord, which really meant more than smiles.

“Well,” said Henry, “the kettle’s on the stove.”

“How much corn did you get?”

“Well, I allowed three ears apiece.  They’re pretty good size.  I thought that was about right.”

Sylvia nodded.

“The corn’s holding out pretty well,” said Henry.  “That other later kind will be ready by the time the lima beans are ripe.”

“That ’ll go nice for succotash,” said Sylvia, taking another stitch.

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Henry.

He sat staring out upon the front yard, and he was in reality thinking, with pleasant anticipations, of the succotash.  Now that he was back in his old track at the shop, his appetite was better, and he found himself actually dreaming about savory dishes like a boy.  Henry’s pleasures in life were so few and simple that they had to go a long way, and lap over onto his spiritual needs from his physical ones.

Sylvia broke in upon his visions of succotash.  She was straining her eyes to see the road beyond the front yard.  “What time is it?” she asked.  “Do you know?”

“It was half-past five by the kitchen clock.”

“They ain’t in sight yet.”  Sylvia stared and frowned at the distance.  “This house does set too far back,” she said, impatiently.

“Now, Sylvia, I wouldn’t give up a mite of this front yard.”

“I’d give it all up if I could see folks go past.  A woman wants to see something out of the window and from the doorstep besides flowers and box and trees.”

Sylvia glared at the yard, which was beautiful.  The box grew lustily, framing beds of flowers and clusters of radiant bushes.  There were two perfectly symmetrical horse-chestnut-trees, one on each side of the broad gravel walk.  The yard looked like some wonderful map wherein the countries were made of flowers, the design was so charmingly artificial and prim.

“It’s awful set, I think,” said Sylvia.  “I’d rather have flowers growing where they want to instead of where they have to.  And I never did like box.  Folks say it’s unhealthy, too.”