After breakfast the wife helped the Walrus to drag the cot out of doors. When she was alone on the porch I told her how sorry I was she had been obliged to cook for me. I thanked her for her toil. But she hurried away, without a pause or a glance. She kissed one of those miry faced babies. She walked into the house, leaving me smirking at the hills. She growled something at the host. He came forth. He pointed out the road, over the mountains and far away. He broke off a blossoming apple-sprig and whittled it. “So you’ve been to Atlanta?” he asked. “Yes.” “I was there once. What hotel did you use?” “The Salvation Army.” “I was in the United States Hotel.” Still I was stupid. He continued: “I was there two years.” He put on his glasses. He threw down the apple-sprig, and, looking over the glasses, he made unhappy each blossom in his own peculiar way. He continued: “I was in the United States Hotel, for making blockade whisky. I don’t make it any more.” He spat again. “I don’t even go fishin’ on Sunday unless--” He had made up his mind that I was a customer, not a detective. “Unless what?” “Unless a visitor wants a mess of fish.” But I did not want a mess of fish. Repeatedly I offered money for my night’s lodging. This he declined with real pride. _He maintained his one virtue intact._ And so I thought of him, just as I left, as a man who kept his code. The John Collier brogans were easier that morning, partly because I had something new on my mind, no doubt. I thought of the Gnome a long time. I thought of the wife, and wondered at her as a unique illustration of the tragic mysteries of the human race. If she screams when seven devils enter into the Gnome, no one outside the house will hear but the apple-tree. If she weeps, only the wind in the chimney will understand. If she seeks justice and the law, King Log, the Walrus, is her uncertain refuge. If she desires mercy, the emperor of that valley, the king above King Log, is a venomous serpent, even the Worm of the Still. But now the road unwound in glory. I walked away from those serpent-bitten dominions for that time. I was one with the air of the sweet heavens, the light of the ever-enduring sun, the abounding stillness of the forest, and the inscrutable Majesty, brooding on the mountains, the Majesty whom ignorantly we worship. THE TRAMP’S REFUSAL On Being Asked by a Beautiful Gipsy to Join her Group of Strolling Players.