The man, for such it proved, was performing most wondrous gymnastics upon the ground,--smelling here, smelling there, too agile to be tipsy, too silent to be mad. I had no desire to be alone in a lonely road at nightfall with a maniac, and I was not sorry when my nearer approach resolved these strange phenomena into a well-dressed pedestrian on all-fours in the middle of a dusty highway. He rose as I approached, and I smiled to see that the spectacles astride his handsome nose were minus one lens. He seemed half blind and wholly bewildered. I looked at once for the lost glass, and there it lay shining at me from the very spot where he had been so industriously peering. He laughed grimly as I handed it to him, fitted his treasure into its wonted rim, took out his watch, and with a low chuckle said,-- "Twenty-five minutes is a long time to search for a bit of such small circumference. Thank you. Do you go to the Deacon's?" "Yes." "So do I." We walked on together in silence, till we reached our journey's end,--I too tired, he too reserved, too preoccupied, or too shy, to speak again; but when, at last, we were seated with our cigars on the Deacon's door-step, he turned suddenly to me and asked,-- "Are you fond of the country?" "Why, yes! What else is there?" I answered, laughing. "Ah, you are an artist!" "I hope to be one." "Its a bad business," said he, testily,--"a very bad business. If I were you, I would give it up." "Have you ever tried it?" "Tried it?" he ejaculated, kicking the gravel-walk,--"yes, and everything else, I believe. If I thought it would do you any good, I would give you the benefit of my experience; but you'd only laugh, and make a good story of it to your wife." "Alas! I have no such incumbrance." "The worse for you, if you have genius and the modesty of genius. A true artist, who seeks to interpret Nature in its purest and most exquisite relations, who penetrates the deepest temples of the woods and the silent sanctuaries of the mountains, must be a true, pure, and good man. He must be a happy man,--happy in a sweet and natural way. A man whose life is passed in a daily delight that gently stirs without feverish excitement will be tender and most lovely to women. He _ought_ to marry." "Did you ever write poetry?" I asked. "I began to compose when I was six years old. I wrote a poem on the sea, commencing,-- 'O thou earthly sea, Every person thinks of thee,-- The sailor, and the busy bee, And the Chinese drinking tea!' I thought it very fine. I have written many things since then, and they seemed good to me at the time. I would not venture to say how they struck others." He smiled pleasantly. "Do not be frightened by the shadow of a possible wife from unfolding your history," said I. "Chance has thrown us together; befriend me with your experience." "Take warning, then, if need be.