“I don’t know.  Most of us are, I suppose, in one way or another.  But how nice it would be if we could paint ourselves instead of wearing clothes, and go under a tree when it rained, and pick cocoanuts or bananas when we were hungry.  It would save so much trouble and expense.”

“Paint is sticky,” observed Barbara, “and the rain would come around the tree when the wind was blowing from all ways at once, as it does sometimes, and I do not like either cocoanuts or bananas.  I’d rather sew.  What went wrong to-day?” she asked, with a whimsical smile.  “Everything?”

“Almost,” admitted Roger.  “How did you know?”

[Sidenote:  Unfailing Barometer]

“Because you want to be a heathen instead of the foremost lawyer of your time.  Your ambition is an unfailing barometer.”

He laughed lightly.  This sort of banter was very pleasing to him after a day with the law books and an hour or more with his mother.  He had known Barbara since they were children and their comradeship dated back to the mud-pie days.

“I don’t know but what you’re right,” he said.  “Whether I go to Congress or the Fiji Islands may depend, eventually, upon Judge Bascom’s liver.”

“Don’t let it depend upon him,” cautioned Barbara.  “Make your own destiny.  It was Napoleon, wasn’t it, who prided himself upon making his own circumstances?  What would you do—­or be—­if you could have your choice?”

[Sidenote:  Aspirations]

“The best lawyer in the State,” he answered, promptly.  “I’d never oppose the innocent nor defend the guilty.  And I’d have money enough to be comfortable and to make those I love comfortable.”

“Would you marry?” she asked, thoughtfully.

“Why—­I suppose so.  It would seem queer, though.”

“Roger,” she said, abruptly, “you were born a year and more before I was, and yet you’re fully ten or fifteen years younger.”

“Don’t take me back too far, Barbara, for I hate milk.  Please don’t deprive me of my solid food.  What would you do, if you could choose?”

“I’d write a book.”

“What kind?  Dictionary?”

“No, just a little book.  The sort that people who love each other would choose for a gift.  Something that would be given to one who was going on a long or difficult journey.  The one book a woman would take with her when she was tired and went away to rest.  A book with laughter and tears in it and so much fine courage that it would be given to those who are in deep trouble.  I’d soften the hard hearts, rest the weary ones, and give the despairing ones new strength to go on.  Just a little book, but so brave and true and sweet and tender that it would bring the sun to every shady place.”

“Would you marry?”

[Sidenote:  The Right Man]

“Of course, if the right man came.  Otherwise not.”

“I wonder,” mused Roger, “how a person could know the right one?”