“It is not,” replied I. “Thank God, I'm at last in the position I've been toiling to achieve. I don't have to be prudent. I can say and do what I please, without fear of the consequences. I can freely indulge in the luxury of being a man. That's costly, Joe, but it's worth all it could cost.” Joe didn't understand me--he rarely did. “I'm a hen. You're an eagle,” said he. XXIX. A HOUSEWARMING Joe's daughter, staying on and on at Dawn Hill, was chief lieutenant, if not principal, in my conspiracy to drift Anita day by day further and further into the routine of the new life. Yet neither of us had shown by word or look that a thorough understanding existed between us. My part was to be unobtrusive, friendly, neither indifferent nor eager, and I held to it by taking care never to be left alone with Anita; Alva's part was to be herself--simple and natural and sensible, full of life and laughter, mocking at those moods that betray us into the absurdity of taking ourselves too seriously. I was getting ready a new house in town as a surprise to Anita, and I took Alva into my plot. “I wish Anita's part of the house to be exactly to her liking,” said I. “Can't you set her to dreaming aloud what kind of place she would like to live in, what she would like to open her eyes on in the morning, what surroundings she'd like to dress in and read in, and all that?” Alva had no difficulty in carrying out the suggestions. And by harassing Westlake incessantly, I succeeded in realizing her report of Anita's dream to the exact shade of the draperies and the silk that covered the walls. By pushing the work, I got the house done just as Alva was warning me that she could not remain longer at Dawn Hill, but must go home and get ready for her wedding. When I went down to arrange with her the last details of the surprise, who should meet me at the station but Anita herself? I took one glance at her serious face and, much disquieted, seated myself beside her in the little trap. Instead of following the usual route to the house, she turned her horse into the bay-shore road. “Several days ago,” she began, as the bend hid the station, “I got a letter from some lawyers, saying that an uncle of mine had given me a large sum of money--a very large sum. I have been inquiring about it, and find it is mine absolutely.” I braced myself against the worst. “She is about to tell me that she is leaving,” thought I. But I managed to say: “I'm glad to hear of your luck,” though I fear my tone was not especially joyous. “So,” she went on, “I am in a position to pay back to you, I think, what my father and Sam took from you. It won't be enough, I'm afraid, to pay what you lost indirectly. But I have told the lawyers to make it all over to you.”