“We’ve lost something and we’ve gained something—at another place,” John went on. “I don’t know what it is—but it’s something.” “John, I know, and I’ll tell you.” She came and knelt at his side and tried to reach his neck with her short arms. “We’re falling in love again!” John suddenly held her off and stared. “By jiminy!” “Yes. It was so long to wait—and there is nobody but you and me now—and we have got to begin all over again. Don’t you see?” And the tears fell again. “No! I was always in love with you. No!” And he was quite stubborn about it. “Yes!” she cried. “Yes,” John agreed. “No!” she laughed. “No,” laughed John. After a moment she released herself, and, taking John by the throat in the old fashion, said: “And, John, we _will_ begin all over again. We’re not old! So there!” She spread her skirts and whirled around on her toes. “Not a day older than in ’35,” said John, with glistening eyes. She flew upon him and took him again by the throat. “John!” she cried, “that’s a little _too_ much!” But John was not convinced—though she lifted her yellow hair and showed him where the gray was creeping in. “But it’s mighty sweet,” she conceded. They did exactly as they had planned—began all over again. John was as tender with her as he had been after that night of the husking. And Betsy was as devoted to John as she had been in that halcyon time. “Growing old is just an idea,” said the happy John, one day. “Oh, of course,” agreed Betsy, busily plaiting withes, “until you _know_!” “Why, everything is just as it was thirty years ago—ain’t it, Betsy?” “John,” laughed Betsy, trying to plunge upon him from her work, “did it ever occur to you that your love-making nowadays consists largely of recalling those other love-makings—in ’35, you know?” John thought a moment. “Why, so it is, Betsy—so it is.” “All imagination.” “That’s just as good—just as good,” said John, stubbornly. “It’s always new.” “Just as good,” laughed his wife, “when you don’t know no better—and we don’t, John, do we?” “No, thank God,” said John, “and I don’t want to.” “So don’t I,” said his wife, laughing. “Betsy,” asked John, “do you ever think of that roof any more?” “Yes,” answered Betsy, trying to be serious, “and we’ll have it some of these days—never fear.” VII MAKING BELIEVE BRINGS THINGS For the next twenty years Betsy made baskets and John went in and out with his pick and shovel. But they earned less and less. And then the owner of their house died and left them to the tender mercy of his heirs. These promptly began to inquire about the arrears of rent. “I don’t know how much we are back, but I guess it’s a good deal,” smiled Betsy. John was troubled. “If we’d only kep’ on saving, we might own the house by now, and—” Betsy put her hand on his mouth—and some of the fingers into it.