"You're mistaken," Will went on, "if you think _I'm_ envying anybody anything. I've yet to meet two people happier than we. Children are pleasant enough incidents in life," Will went on, "but don't you draw any wrong conclusions that happiness is dependent on them. It isn't. Look at Dr. and Mrs. Graham. They never had any, and two more congenial, more contented, happier people never existed--except perhaps ourselves. Dr. Graham has too much sound thought to allow the denial of any _one_ of the supposed blessings of life to disturb his peace. And so have we, Bobbie, don't you think? Some of the very best people in the world, some of those who have accomplished the most effective work, never had children. It isn't the first question we ask about a great man or a good woman. I might have reason to complain if I didn't have my health or a good sound mind, or if after these few precious years together, I lost _you_. But as it is--well, please don't ever say again, young lady, that our present conditions are hard for me. Hard--Nonsense!" Dear Will! I'd heard this same little speech of his dozens of times before. When he tries so hard to cheer me it seems too bad not to respond; so I smiled now. "Will Maynard," I said, "you don't deceive me for one minute by all this talk! Don't think you do! _I_ know--_I_ understand. But I'll say this--and I've said it a hundred times before--you certainly _are_ the kindest man I ever knew." "Bosh!" he laughed. "Yes, you are--yes, you are. And I guess if I've got you I'd better not complain." I put away my handkerchief. "It's all over now," I announced, "and I'm ready to beat you at those five games of crib." He dealt the cards and for five minutes we played in earnest; then suddenly Will reached across and took my hand. "Who says you and I aren't perfectly happy?" he asked. CHAPTER XXII It wasn't a week after that Sunday afternoon of ours on our darling hilltop that I received a letter from Ruth announcing her intention of paying me a visit. I was amazed.