“Success is very sweet, Charmian, even in the smallest thing; for instance,” said I, pointing to the cottage door that stood open beside her, “when I built that door, and saw it swing on its hinges, I was as proud of it as though it had been—­”

“A really good door,” interpolated Charmian, “instead of a bad one!”

“A bad one, Charmian?”

“It is a very clumsy door, and has neither bolt nor lock.”

“There are no thieves hereabouts, and, even if there were, they would not dare to set foot in the Hollow after dark.”

“And then, unless one close it with great care, it sticks—­very tight!”

“That, obviating the necessity of a latch, is rather to be commended,” said I.

“Besides, it is a very ill-fitting door, Peter.”

“I have seen worse.”

“And will be very draughty in cold weather.”

“A blanket hung across will remedy that.”

“Still, it can hardly be called a very good door, can it, Peter?” Here I lighted my pipe without answering.  “I suppose you make horseshoes much better than you make doors?” I puffed at my pipe in silence.  “You are not angry because I found fault with your door, are you, Peter?”

“Angry?” said I; “not in the least.”

“I am sorry for that.”

“Why sorry?”

“Are you never angry, Peter?”

“Seldom, I hope.”

“I should like to see you so—­just once.  Finding nothing to say in answer to this, I smoked my negro-head pipe and stared at the moon, which was looking down at us through a maze of tree-trunks and branches.

“Referring to horseshoes,” said Charmian at last, “are you content to be a blacksmith all your days?”

“Yes, I think I am.”

“Were you never ambitious, then?”

“Ambition is like rain, breaking itself upon what it falls on—­at least, so Bacon says, and—­”

“Oh, bother Bacon!  Were you never ambitious, Peter?”

“I was a great dreamer.”

“A dreamer!” she exclaimed with fine scorn; “are dreamers ever ambitious?”

“Indeed, they are the most truly ambitious,” I retorted; “their dreams are so vast, so infinite, so far beyond all puny human strength and capacity that they, perforce, must remain dreamers always.  Epictetus himself—­”

“I wish,” sighed Charmian, “I do wish—­”

“What do you wish?”

“That you were not—­”

“That I was not?”

“Such a—­pedant!”

“Pedant!” said I, somewhat disconcerted.

“And you have a way of echoing my words that is very irritating.”

“I beg your pardon,” said I, feeling much like a chidden schoolboy; “and I am sorry you should think me a pedant.”

“And you are so dreadfully precise and serious,” she continued.

“Am I, Charmian?”

“And so very solemn and austere, and so ponderous, and egotistical, and calm—­yes, you are hatefully calm and placid, aren’t you, Peter?”