mountains can appal it:  railroads have given it a wide berth.  Here and there the forest opens out to reveal, on a knoll or “flat,” a forgotten village or tavern-stand.  Over the high shelf of Washington Town it runs where the air is keen and the lakes are blue, where long-stemmed wild flowers nod on its sunny banks, to reach at length the rounded, classic hills and sentinel mountain that mark the sheep country of the Connecticut....

It was before Janet’s convalescence began that Mrs. Maturin had consulted Insall concerning her proposed experiment in literature.  Afterwards he had left Silliston for a lumber camp on a remote river in northern Maine, abruptly to reappear, on a mild afternoon late in April, in Augusta Maturin’s garden.  The crocuses and tulips were in bloom, and his friend, in a gardening apron, was on her knees, trowel in hand, assisting a hired man to set out marigolds and snapdragons.

“Well, it’s time you were home again,” she exclaimed, as she rose to greet him and led him to a chair on the little flagged terrace beside the windows of her library.  “I’ve got so much to tell you about our invalid.”

“Our invalid!” Insall retorted.

“Of course.  I look to you to divide the responsibility with me, and you’ve shirked by running off to Maine.  You found her, you know—­and she’s really remarkable.”

“Now see here, Augusta, you can’t expect me to share the guardianship of an attractive and—­well, a dynamic young woman.  If she affects you this way, what will she do to me?  I’m much too susceptible.”

“Susceptible” she scoffed.  “But you can’t get out of it.  I need you.  I’ve never been so interested and so perplexed in my life.”

“How is she?” Insall asked.

“Frankly, I’m worried,” said Mrs. Maturin.  “At first she seemed to be getting along beautifully.  I read to her, a little every day, and it was wonderful how she responded to it.  I’ll tell you about that I’ve got so much to tell you!  Young Dr. Trent is puzzled, too, it seems there are symptoms in the case for which he cannot account.  Some three weeks ago he asked me what I made out of her, and I can’t make anything—­that’s the trouble, except that she seems pathetically grateful, and that I’ve grown absurdly fond of her.  But she isn’t improving as fast as she should, and Dr. Trent doesn’t know whether or not to suspect functional complications.  Her constitution seems excellent, her vitality unusual.  Trent’s impressed by her, he inclines to the theory that she has something on her mind, and if this is so she should get rid of it, tell it to somebody—­in short, tell it to me.  I know she’s fond of me, but she’s so maddeningly self-contained, and at moments when I look at her she baffles me, she makes me feel like an atom.  Twenty times at least I’ve almost screwed up my courage to ask her, but when it comes to the point, I simply can’t do it.”

“You ought to be able to get at it, if any one can,” said Insall.