"Kim is so vivid that I can't believe it--don't pretend you don't understand, Bruce, because you always do," said Rob. "I know," assented Bruce. "The wonderful detail that is vivid and unreal at once, as dreams are vivid and unreal. Rob, you are in a queer mood to-night; you have somewhat the effect on me this moment which you are trying to describe--you are most vivid, yet you seem unreal, at least unlike yourself." "I feel so," agreed Rob promptly. "I feel excited, stirred, restless, happy, unhappy--all ways, but my normal way. What is making Basil so much more talkative than usual to-night?" "His plans, I fancy; he is probably telling Wythie what he is considering," Bruce answered regarding his elder with a twinkle. What Basil was saying was nothing, apparently to call forth the twinkle. "Then you approve the idea?" Rob heard him say. "Yes," said Wythie quietly. "I like the Caldwell place very much; it is dignified and beautiful. If you really mean to make literature your career, and to study, Basil, and became a specialist in bird study, besides writing a novel or so--you said a novel or so? Well, then," Wythie continued as Basil nodded a smiling assent, "I do not see how you could have a better place in which to live and work than in Fayre, so quiet, yet so near town, and in the old Caldwell place, among its elms and Norwegian pines." "And you like it, Wythie? You think it could be made a home to be happy in?" persisted Basil. Wythie looked up without embarrassment, her face shining with confidence. "Anywhere may be that, Basil," she said. "And the Caldwell place more than most. If I were you I would buy it. And it is certainly an irresistible bargain at that price." "Basil is talking of buying the Caldwell place, you see," said Bruce. "He has fully made up his mind, since father's latest letter came, to give up all thought of a business career after we are graduated and 'commence author,' as our English cousins say. I honestly think he is warranted in the choice; I suppose he will do something the sort of thing John Burroughs does, as well as write novels--everybody writes novels." "Except you and me," smiled Rob. "Must you go? How short these intercollegiate evenings are!" "Intercollegiate, Rob?" echoed her mother, putting down her work and coming forward as the three tall guests rose to take their leave. "Aren't they between college?" asked Rob unabashed. "Just two little full days sandwiched in between the five of hard labour at Yale." The little grey house settled down to slumber soon after it was left to itself. The brisk autumnal winds are conducive to deep sleep, and Wythie and Rob in their room, and Prue in hers, opening from it, in which little Polly Flinders was tucked away in the corner, slept dreamlessly far into the night. Then the sound of voices penetrated their sleep, far-off calls, men shouting, and, at last, a hand was shaking Wythie and Rob into wakefulness.