"No." The sudden upward glance was all a-quiver with alertness. "I don't ever seem tired now. Keeping one's own house--is great! and it seems like everything is waking up every minute. Sometimes I hate to go to sleep for fear I'll miss something." And now Gaston's hand touched the heavy curves of pale, gold hair. "You have made a _home_," he said; "I wonder if you know what a great achievement that is? I wonder if Jude knows?" Joyce winced. "Oh! if he's a bit cross with me," she whispered softly, "don't you mind. He thinks that's the way, you know. _I_ understand." "I suppose you do," Gaston smoothed the silken hair, "but make _him_ understand, Joyce. It takes understanding on both sides, you know." "And, Mr. Gaston"--the girl changed the subject as adroitly as a more worldly wise woman might have done--"you helped me make this home. I ain't _ever_ going to let you forget that. These pictures," her loving glance took them all in, "and the books coming and going just fast enough to keep me nimble. It seems like you'd opened a gate and let some of the big world in." "There's plenty of it on the other side of the two Solitudes, Joyce." Gaston's hand fell gently along the warm throat and rested on the bent shoulder. Jude gave another gurgling snore. The two did not change their positions, but there was silence for an instant. "That mountain-top, all jagged and high--my! how it just makes me want to climb; climb through my work all day long; climb to getting somewhere out beyond. And that great empty picture with the awful white wave coming from nowhere--it just makes me hold my breath. Sometimes it seems as if it was going to swallow up everything and--me. It don't ever do that, does it, Mr. Gaston?" "It has done damage of that kind in its time; but generally it obeys orders and stops at the safety line." Gaston smiled into the wondering eyes. "I like the--picture--I like it terribly," breathed the girl, "but I'd _hate_ the real thing. I am sure it makes a terrific noise." Gaston nodded, and old memories seemed beating in upon him. "It would wear me out by its own----" "Restlessness." Gaston's thought ran along with the cruder one. "Its restlessness is at times--unbearable, unless--one is very young and happy." "But I am young--and happy." Joyce spoke lingeringly and her eyes grew fixed upon the heart of the coals. "Still I would hate it--and be afraid of it. It's beautiful--but it's awful. I don't like awful things. I like to look up at that brave old mountain, and know--it will always be the same no matter what happens down below." Suddenly Gaston felt old, very old, beside this girl near him with her intuitive soul-stretches and her hampered life. "So the mountain is your favourite picture, Joyce?" A grandfatherly tone crept into his voice, and the caressing hand touched the round, pale outline of cheek and chin with the assurance of age and superiority--but the girl tingled under it.