“Why have you let him go on with it?” she asked. “I suppose you have encouraged him?” “Oh, yes, I encouraged him. The creature's recklessness fascinated me. A dare-devil like that is always charming.'” “You think there is no chance for the creature's succeeding with the daily?” “None,” he replied indifferently. “You mentioned work-baskets, I think?” He laughed again. “I believe him to be the original wooden-nutmeg man. Once a week he produces a 'Woman's Page,' wherein he presents to the Carlow female public three methods for making currant jelly, three receipts for the concoction of salads, and directs the ladies how to manufacture a pretty work-basket out of odd scraps in twenty minutes. The astonishing part of it is that he has not yet been mobbed by the women who have followed his directions.” “So you think the daily is a mistake and that your enterprising idiot should be mobbed? Why?” She seemed to be taking him very seriously. “I think he may be--for his 'Woman's Page.'” “It is all wrong, you think?” “What could a Yankee six-footer cousin of old Fisbee's know about currant jelly and work-baskets?” “You know about currant jelly and work-baskets yourself?” “Heaven defend the right, I do not!” “You are sure he is six feet?” “You should see his signature; that leaves no doubt. And, also, his ability denotes his stature.” “You believe that ability is in proportion to height, do you not?” There was a dangerous luring in her tone. His memory recalled to him that he was treading on undermined ground, so he hastened to say: “In inverse proportion.” “Then your substitute is a failure. I see,” she said, slowly. What muffled illumination there was in their nook fell upon his face; her back was toward it, so that she was only an outline to him, and he would have been startled and touched to the quick, could he have known that her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears as she spoke the last words. He was happy as he had not been since his short June day; it was enough to be with her again. Nothing, not even Brainard Macauley, could dull his delight. And, besides, for a few minutes he had forgotten Brainard Macauley. What more could man ask than to sit in the gloom with her, to know that he was near her again for a little while, and to talk about anything--if he talked at all? Nonsense and idle exaggeration about young Fisbee would do as well as another thing.