'Two paradises were in one, To live in Paradise alone.'-- I suppose that meets your 'notions.'" "No," said the doctor,--"not unless Eve were the paradise. And even then, I shouldn't want her any more to myself than to let all the world come and see that she was mine." "It is a grave question," said Mr. Linden, "whether paradise becomes smaller by being divided. In other words, whether after sharing it with Eve, Adam still retained the whole of it for himself!" "Just the other way!" said the doctor,--"it was doubled--or trebled. For in the first place he had Eve; she was a second paradise;--then all her enjoyment of paradise was his enjoyment; that was a third;--and in short I should think the multiplication might go on ad infinitum--like compound interest or any other series of happiness impossible to calculate." "Simple interest isn't a bad thing," said Mr. Linden. "Yes," said the doctor with an answering flash of his eye, "but it never contented anybody yet that could get it compound--that ever I heard of. Does Miss Derrick understand arithmetic?" "Miss Derrick," said Mr. Linden, "how many angels can stand on the point of a (darning) needle without jostling each other?" "Don't be deluded into thinking _that_ is arithmetic," said the doctor. "Some of them would get their feet hurt. What duty has Mr. Linden been persuading you to do to-day?" "Mr. Linden can tell," said Faith. Which appeal Mr. Linden answered by deliberately finishing his poem aloud, for the benefit of the company. "'What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine. The nectarine, the curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach. Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.' 'Here, at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings; And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.'" etc. The doctor listened, faithfully and enjoyingly; but his finishing comment was, "What a pity it is November!" "No," said Faith--"I think I enjoyed it better than I should in July." "Rousseau's doctrine," said the doctor. "Or do you mean that you like the description better than the reality?" "It was the reality I enjoyed," said Faith. "What have you got there, Linden?" "Various old poets, bound up together." "What was that you read?" "Andrew Marvell's 'Garden.'" "It's a famous good thing!--though I confess my soul never 'glided into the boughs' of any tree when my body didn't go along. Apropos--Do you like to be on the back of a good horse?" "Why yes," said Mr. Linden, "when circumstances place me there."