Sidney Meeks had his own small amusement in the world.  He was one of those who cannot exist without one, and in lieu of anything else he had turned early in life toward making wines from many things which his native soil produced.  He had become reasonably sure, at an early age, that he should achieve no great success in his profession.  Indeed, he was lazily conscious that he had no fierce ambition to do so.  Sidney Meeks was not an ambitious man in large matters.  But he had taken immense comfort in toiling in a little vineyard behind his house, and also in making curious wines and cordials from many unusual ingredients.  Sidney had stored in his cellar wines from elder flowers, from elderberries, from daisies, from rhubarb, from clover, and currants, and many other fruits and flowers, besides grapes.  He was wont to dispense these curious brews to his callers with great pride.  But he took especial pride in a grape wine which he had made from selected grapes thirty years ago.  This wine had a peculiar bouquet due to something which Sidney had added to the grape-juice, the secret of which he would never divulge.

It was some of this golden wine which Sidney now produced.  Henry drank two glasses, and the tense muscles around his mouth relaxed.  Sidney smiled.  “Don’t know what gives it that scent and taste, do you?” asked Sidney.  “Well, I know.  It’s simple enough, but nobody except Sidney Meeks has ever found it out.  I tell you, Henry, if a man hasn’t set the river on fire, realized his youthful dreams, and all that, it is something to have found out something that nobody else has, no matter how little it is, if you have got nerve enough to keep it to yourself.”

Henry fairly laughed.  His long, hollow cheeks were slightly flushed.  When he got home that night he looked pleasantly at Sylvia, preparing supper.  But Sylvia did not look as radiant as she had done since her good-fortune.  She said nothing ailed her, in response to his inquiry as to whether she felt well or not, but she continued gloomy and taciturn, which was most unusual with her, especially of late.

“What in the world is the matter with you, Sylvia?” Henry asked.  The influence of Sidney Meeks’s wine had not yet departed from him.  His cheeks were still flushed, his eyes brilliant.

Then Sylvia roused herself.  “Nothing is the matter,” she replied, irritably, and immediately she became so gay that had Henry himself been in his usual mood he would have been as much astonished as by her depression.  Sylvia began talking and laughing, relating long stories of new discoveries which she had made in the house, planning for Horace Allen’s return.

“He’s going to have that big southwest room and the little one out of it,” Sylvia said.  “To-morrow you must get the bed moved into the little one, and I’ll get the big room fixed up for a study.  He’ll be tickled to pieces.  There’s beautiful furniture in the room now.  I suppose he’ll think it’s beautiful.  It’s terrible old-fashioned.  I’d rather have a nice new set of bird’s-eye maple to my taste, and a brass bedstead, but I know he’ll like this better.  It’s solid old mahogany.”