I don't know quite why it is, but after I have been serious about so long, I have an irresistible desire to laugh. I find I can't remain in a rarified atmosphere too long. "Nort," I said suddenly, "you haven't been seeing any terrible truths about Hempfield, have you?" The change in his face was startling. He looked like a boy caught in the jam closet--the colour suddenly flooding his cheeks. "Where is it?" I asked. "Trot it out." "How did you know?" asked that extraordinary young man. I laughed. "Nort," I said, "you aren't the only man in this world who is trying to write--and is ashamed of himself because he can't." With a smile which I can only characterize as sheepish, Nort drew from his breast pocket a packet of paper. He was all eagerness again, and was for reading me his production on the spot; but just at this moment we saw the old Captain driving up to the gate alone. Where was Anthy? A little later Fergus came, and for some time Harriet filled the whole house with the pleasant noises and bustle of hospitality, which she knows best how to do. "Captain," I said as soon as ever I could get in a word, "Nort has brought a manuscript with him to read to us." At that the Captain instinctively lifted one hand to his breast. "The Captain has one, too," I said. "A mere editorial," responded the Captain with dignity. "Where's yours, Fergus?" I asked. Fergus took his pipe out, barked once or twice deep down inside, and put it back again, which, interpreted, meant that Fergus was amused. At this point Harriet broke in. "Before you do anything else," said she, "I want you all to come out and have a bite to eat." That's the way with Harriet. Just at the moment when you've set your scenery, staged your play, and the curtain is about to go up, she appears with--gingerbread--and stampedes the entire company. Why, you couldn't have kept Fergus---- Harriet had put on her choicest tablecloth and the precious napkins left her by our great-aunt Dorcas, and the old thin glass dishes that came from Grandmother Scribner, which are never used except upon high occasions. It was Sunday night and, as Harriet explained, we never have any supper on Sunday night. There was thick yellow gingerbread, with just a hint in it (not a bit too much and not too little) of the delectable molasses of which it was made, and perfect apple sauce from the earliest Red Astrakhans, cooked so that the rosy quarters looked plump, with sugary crystals sparkling upon them, and thin glass tumblers (of Grandmother Scribner's set) full of sweet milk, yellow and almost foamy at the top. There are perfect moments in this life!