“Faith?  I wonder.  Do you mean that people do not dare go ahead and do things?”

“Well, partly.  You see, everybody is hedged in by circumstances.”

“Yes.  I do begin to see circumstances.  I suppose I’m a sort of a goose —­in the abstract, as you say.”  And Evelyn laughed.  It was the spontaneous, contagious laugh of a child.  “You know that Miss McDonald says I’m nothing but a little idealist.”

“Did you deny it?”

“Oh, no.  I said, so were the Apostles, all save one—­he was a realist.”

It was Philip’s turn to laugh at this new definition, and upon this the talk had drifted into the commonplaces of the summer situation and about Rivervale and its people.  Philip regretted that his vacation would so soon be over, and that he must say good-by to all this repose and beauty, and to the intercourse that had been so delightful to him.

“But you will write,” Evelyn exclaimed.

Philip was startled.

“Write?”

“Yes, your novel.”

“Oh, I suppose so,” without any enthusiasm.

“You must.  I keep thinking of it.  What a pleasure it must be to create a real drama of life.”

So this day on the veranda of the inn when Philip spoke of his hateful departure next day, and there was a little chorus of protest, Evelyn was silent; but her silence was of more significance to him than the protests, for he knew her thoughts were on the work he had promised to go on with.

“It is too bad,” Mrs. Mavick exclaimed; “we shall be like a lot of sheep without a shepherd.”

“That we shall,” the governess joined in.  “At any rate, you must make us out a memorandum of what is to be seen and done and how to do it.”

“Yes,” said Philip, gayly, “I’ll write tonight a complete guide to Rivervale.”

“We are awfully obliged to you for what you have done.”  Mrs. Mavick was no doubt sincere in this.  And she added, “Well, we shall all be back in the city before long.”

It was a natural thing to say, and Philip understood that there was no invitation in it, more than that of the most conventional acquaintance.  For Mrs. Mavick the chapter was closed.

There were the most cordial hand-shakings and good-bys, and Philip said good-by as lightly as anybody.  But as he walked along the road he knew, or thought he was sure, that the thoughts of one of the party were going along with him into his future, and the peaceful scene, the murmuring river, the cat-birds and the blackbirds calling in the meadow, and the spirit of self-confident youth in him said not good-by, but au revoir.

XIV