"I am a true child of the cities," said Doris, "despite my country birth and rural name. I was just thinking how superior are the attractions of paved streets, filled with men and women, and lined with glittering windows. But if you will tell me some of the suggestions of the wheat field, no doubt I shall learn from you to think differently." How charming was this docile frankness! "It suggests earth's millions filled daily with bread. It suggests that gracious Providence, by long and lovely processes, forestalling man's needs. It brings to mind the old-time stories of Joseph's dream of bowing sheaves, of Ruth gleaning in the field of Boaz." The stories of Ruth, Rebecca and Esther were the three Bible stories that Doris knew; the face of Doris lighted as she answered: "Oh, I like that! I have imagined Boaz--tall, grave, stately, dark; and Ruth--young, and fair, and tender. I cannot quite fancy how Naomi looked--like other old women with a sad history, I suppose--but the words are lovely." "'Whither thou goest I will go; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'" His voice took a deep, passionate tone, and his eyes filled with the light of love. "Mattie says you are a poet!" cried Doris. "Are you?" "I wish I could say 'I am.' Time will prove me. I have the poet's longing. Shall I ever reach the poet's utterance?" "Why, I think you have it now," said Doris, sweetly. "It is because you inspire me, perhaps. As I came toward you, I wondered whether you were Tennyson's 'Dora' or 'The Gardener's Daughter.'" "Oh, neither! I am very different! They were content with trees and flowers, and humble ways. Was it not Dora who 'dwelt unmarried till her death?' I shall not do that. I shall marry and fly from the country-side. I can _live_ among people in the city." "What! cannot you live the truest life where wind, and rain, and water-fall, and birds make music? the flowers mark the sweet procession of seasons--all is calm, and security, and innocence." "Tell me," said Doris, bending forward, glee in her sapphire eyes, her small hand thrilling him as she touched his arm; "tell me, poet, are _you_ content? Do _you_ not long for fame? To sway your fellows, to be rich, to make money?" "Oh, money is the lowest of all objects. What is money to love?" demanded Earle. "Money, just as metal, may be a low object, but money as money, as getting what we want most, is a high object. Think of what it can buy. Think of gorgeous pictures lighting your walls with beauty, of flashing jewels and gleaming marbles, of many-fountained gardens, of homes fit to live in, not stuffy little farm-houses, with windows under the eaves. Tell me, are you content? Will you live and die a farmer? Is not this money a thing worth winning to lay at the feet of love? Will you not spread the wings of your soul for a wider life? Have you not ambition?" "Yes!" cried Earle; "I have ambition."