“Just a year ago since I came to the South,” mused Elliott Harding, as he walked back and forth in his room, the deep bay window of which overlooked a lawn noticeably neat and having a representative character of its own. As a rule, South country places in thickly settled regions are pronounced unlovely at a glance, either by reason of the plainness of their architecture or by the too close proximity of other buildings. Here was an exception for the outhouses were numerous but in excellent repair and red-tiled like the house itself. The tiles were silvered here and there with the growth and stains of unremoved lichens. There was not an eye-sore anywhere about this quiet home of Mr. Field. Elliott’s intimates had expressed a pity for him. Surely this quiet must dull his nerves so used to spurring, and he find the jog-trot of the days’ monotony an insupportable experience. That Elliott belonged to the world, loved it, none knew better than himself. He had revelled in its delights with the indifferent thought, “Time enough for fireside happiness by-and-by.” His interest in life had been little more than that which a desire for achievement occasions in an energetic mind. In spite of his past association, his past carelessness, this moment found him going over the most trivial event that had the slightest connection with Dorothy Carr. He tried to recall every word, every look of hers. Often when he had had a particularly hard day’s work, it rested him to stop and take supper with the Carrs. The sight of their home life fascinated him. He had never known happy family life; he had little conception of what a pure, genial home might be. The simple country customs, the common interests so keenly shared, the home loyalty--all these were new to him, and impressed him forcibly. And how like one of them he had got to feel walking in the front hall often, hanging up his hat, and reading the evening papers if the folks were out, and sometimes when Aunt Chloe told him where Dorothy had gone, he felt the natural inclination to go in pursuit of her. He remembered once finding her ankle deep in the warm lush garden grasses, pulling weeds out from her flowers, and he had actually got down and helped her. That was a very happy hour; the freshness of the sweet air gave her unconventional garb a genuine loveliness--gave him a sense of manliness and mastery which he had not felt in the old life. How infinitely sweet she looked! Something about her neatness, grace and order typified to him that palladium of man’s honor and woman’s affection--the home. She appealed to the heart and that appeal has no year, no period, no fashion.