"Oh, most philosophical, dreamy blacksmith! where be your thoughts?" "I was thinking how old and worn and disreputable my coat looked." "Indeed, sir," said Charmian, holding it up and regarding it with a little frown, "forsooth it is ancient, and hath seen better days." "Like its wearer!" said I, and sighed again. "Hark to this ancient man!" she laughed, "this hoary-headed blacksmith of ours, who sighs, and forever sighs; if it could possibly be that he had met any one sufficiently worthy—I should think that he had fallen—philosophically—in love; how think you, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance?" "I remember," said I, "that, among other things, you once called me 'Superior Mr. Smith.'" Charmian laughed and nodded her head at me. "You had been describing to me some quite impossible, idealistic creature, alone worthy of your regard, sir." "Do you still think me 'superior,' Charmian?" "Do you still dream of your impalpable, bloodlessly-perfect ideals, sir?" "No," I answered; "no, I think I have done with dreaming." "And I have done with this, thy coat, for behold! it is finished," and rising, she folded it over the back of my chair. Now, as she stood thus behind me, her hand fell and, for a moment, rested lightly upon my shoulder. "Peter." "Yes, Charmian." "I wish, yes, I do wish that you were either much younger or very much older." "Why?" "Because you wouldn't be quite so—so cryptic—such a very abstruse problem. Sometimes I think I understand you better than you do yourself, and sometimes I am utterly lost; now, if you were younger I could read you easily for myself, and, if you were older, you would read yourself for me." "I was never very young!" said I. "No, you were always too repressed, Peter." "Yes, perhaps I was." "Repression is good up to a certain point, but beyond that it is dangerous," said she, with a portentous shake of the head. "Heigho! was it a week or a year ago that you avowed yourself happy, and couldn't tell why?" "I was the greater fool!" said I. "For not knowing why, Peter?" "For thinking myself happy!" "Peter, what is happiness?" "An idea," said I, "possessed generally of fools!" "And what is misery?" "Misery is also an idea." "Possessed only by the wise, Peter; surely he is wiser who chooses happiness?" "Neither happiness nor misery comes from choice." "But—if one seeks happiness, Peter?" "One will assuredly find misery!" said I, and, sighing, rose, and taking my hammer from its place above my bookshelf, set to work upon my brackets, driving them deep into the heavy framework of the door. All at once I stopped, with my hammer poised, and, for no reason in the world, looked back at Charmian, over my shoulder; looked to find her watching me with eyes that were (if it could well be) puzzled, wistful, shy, and glad at one and the same time; eyes that veiled themselves swiftly before my look, yet that shot one last glance, between their lashes, in which were only joy and laughter.