"Not at all. You have made a large place for yourself at home; you do all any man could do anywhere. And you are happy there. You wouldn't be happy here, because you would have to alter your simple way of living. And if you were not happy, neither should I be. Why should we change conditions in which we are both entirely content, and in which you are accomplishing just as much benefit to humanity as you could anywhere?" "Ah, but that's the question. Couldn't I accomplish more here?" "Is human life more valuable here than there?" "Not a whit." "Could you save more of it?" "I doubt it." "We should have to leave Sunny Farm." She looked up at him with a smile. "We should." He shook his head. "You would be sorry to do that?" "So sorry that I can't possibly think of it. Dear,--make your decision!" "I will. We will stay where we are." He gathered her close and kissed her tenderly. "A place for everything, and everything in its place," he quoted once more. "The place for Jack and Charlotte is here--unquestionably. The place for Ellen and Red is there. I believe it. Jack's offer didn't shake my belief for a minute, as far as I am concerned. It did put into my mind the question whether I ought not to make the change for your sake." "I don't believe," she said slowly, "that a man is often called upon to leave the place where he can be most useful, on account of his wife's tastes or preferences--providing nothing more serious is involved. And, when her tastes and preferences are on his side of the question, there can be no doubt at all. You may be at rest, Red, for I'm sure I'm happiest to live your life with you, just as it is best for you to live it. And I love my country surgeon so well I don't want him made over into anything else. I can't believe he'd be so satisfactory in any other shape!" Red Pepper Burns gently released himself from his wife's arms, walked over to the window, and stood there looking out into the thick branches of a magnolia tree, the ends of which came so close he could almost put out a hand into the night and touch them. There was suddenly upon him a deep realization of just how much her words meant. He felt unworthy of a love like that, even though he knew that all there was of him to give was wholly hers. She stood, motionless, looking after him, her eyes touched with a lovely light, but she did not move. And, presently, when he had conquered the curious stricture which had unexpectedly attacked his throat, he turned and saw her there, an exquisite figure in the French gown which she could seldom have occasion to wear where she had chosen to live out her life with him. Both understood that the decision they had made was made for a lifetime, as such decisions are. "I believe I could take it better," said he, somewhat unsteadily, "if you weren't wearing that confounded dress. It makes me feel like what Jim Macauley dubbed me once--a Turk. Who am I, that I should keep you hidden away in my little old brick house?"