"You have made me forget my lengths," said Mrs. Falconer with unruffled innocence. "I'll have to measure again." Amy turned to John with sparkling eyes. "Did you ever know a man who was in love with a married woman?" "Yes," said John, secretly writhing, but too truthful to say "no." "What did he do about it?" asked Amy. "I don't know," replied John, shortly. "What do you think he ought to have done? What would you do?" asked Amy. "I don't know," replied John, more coolly, turning away his confused face. Neither of you seems to know anything this afternoon," observed Amy, "and I'd always been led to suppose that each of you knew everything." As she departed with her sewing, she turned to send a final arrow, with some genuine feeling. "I think I'll send for uncle to come and talk tome." "Stay and talk to us," Mrs. Falconer called to her with a sincere, pitying laugh. "Come back!" Amy's questions had passed high over her head like a little flock of chattering birds they had struck him low, like bullets. "Go on," she said quietly, when they were seated again, "what was it about the harvest?" He could not reply at once; and she let him sit in silence, looking across the garden while she took up her knitting from the end of the bench, and leaning lightly toward him, measured a few rows of stitches across his wrist. It gave way under her touch. "These are your mittens for next winter," she said softly, more softly than he had ever heard her speak. And the quieting melody of her mere tone!--how unlike that other voice which bored joyously into you as a bright gimlet twists its unfeeling head into wood. He turned on her one quick, beautiful look of gratitude. "What was it about the harvest?" she repeated, forbearing to return his look, and thinking that all his embarrassment followed from the pain of having thus met Amy. He began to speak very slowly: "The last time I was here I boasted that I had yet to meet my first great defeat in life . . . that there was nothing stronger in the world than a man's will and purpose . . . that if ideals got shattered, we shattered them . . . that I would go on doing with my life as I had planned, be what I wished, have what I wanted." "Well?" she urged, busy with her needles. "I know better now."