It was on a Sunday in May, such a perfect still morning as seems to come only at that moment of the spring, and upon Sunday. I was sitting here at my desk at the open window, busily writing. I could feel the warm, sweet air of spring blowing in, I could hear the pleasant, subdued noises from the barnyard, and by leaning just a little back I could see the hens lazily fluffing their feathers in the sunny doorway of the barn. I love such mornings. The tender new shoots of the Virginia creeper were uncurling themselves at the window ledge and feeling their way upward toward freedom--and Nort put his head in among them. "Hello, David!" Though I had just been thinking of him, the sound of his voice startled me. I looked around and saw him smiling very much in his old way. "Nort, you rascal!" said I. [Illustration: "I couldn't stay away another minute. I had to know what the old Captain said and did when the flying-machine came to Hempfield"] "David," he said, "I couldn't stay away another minute. I had to know what the old Captain said and did when the flying-machine came to Hempfield." "Is that all you came back for?" "May I come in?" And with that he climbed in at the window. I took him by both his shoulders and looked him in the eye. I had a curious sense of gladness in having him once more under my hand. "You look thin, Nort, but I haven't any pity or sympathy for you. What have you been up to now?" We both forgot all about the flying-machine. "Well, David," said he, "I've been finding out some things I didn't know before--some things I can't do." He was in a mood wholly unfamiliar to me, a sort of restrained, sad, philosophical mood. "You know," he continued, "I had a great idea for a novel----" He paused and looked up at me, smiling rather sheepishly. "Well, I started it----" "You have!" "Yes, I got the first two paragraphs written. And there I stuck. You see I didn't know where to get hold; and then I thought I'd jump right into the middle of the action, where it was hottest and most interesting--but I found that my hero insisted on explaining everything to the heroine, and wouldn't _do_ anything, and then, when I tried to think how I should have it all come out, I found it didn't have any end, either. I leave it to you, David, how any man is going to write a novel which he can neither get into nor get out of?" His face wore such a rueful, humorous look that I laughed aloud. "It looks funny, I know," he said, "but it's really no laughing matter. It seems to me I'm a complete fizzle." "At twenty-five, Nort! And all this beautiful world around you! Why, you've only to reach out your hand and take what you want." I shall never forget the look on Nort's face as he leaned forward in his chair, nor the words that seemed to be wrung out of his very soul: "That's all right as philosophy, David, but I--want--Anthy."