Spring repeated its ancient miracle in the land of the tall corn. A pleasant haven for warm evenings was the Harden’s “back yard” as the Doctor called it, though it was the most artistic garden in town, where Mrs. Harden indulged her taste in old-fashioned flowers; and there was a tea house set in among towering forest trees where Millicent held court. Bruce appearing late, with the excuse that he had been at work, was able to witness the departure of Millicent’s other “company” as her parents designated her visitors, and enjoy an hour with her alone. Their privacy was invaded usually by Mrs. Harden, who appeared with a pitcher of cooling drink and plates of the cakes in which she specialized. She was enormously busy with her work on the orphan asylum board. She was ruining the orphans, the Doctor said; but he was proud of his wife and encouraged her philanthropies. He was building a hospital in his home town--thus, according to Bud Henderson, propitiating the gods for the enormity of his offense against medical ethics in waxing rich off the asthma cure. The Doctor’s sole recreation was fishing; he had found a retired minister, also linked in some way with the Hardens’ home town, who shared his weakness. They frequently rose with the sun and drove in Harden’s car to places where they had fished as boys. Bruce had known people like the Hardens at Laconia. Even in the big handsome house they retained their simplicity, a simplicity which in some degree explained Millicent. It was this quality in her that accounted for much--the sincerity and artlessness with which she expressed beliefs that gained sanctity from her very manner of speaking of them. On a June night he put into the mail his plans for the memorial and then drove to the Hardens’. Millicent had been playing for some callers who were just leaving. “If you’re not afraid of being moonstruck, let’s sit out of doors,” she suggested. “It’s a habit--this winding up my day here! I’ve just finished a little job and laid it tenderly on the knees of the gods.” “Ah, the mysterious job is done! Is it anything that might be assisted by a friendly thought?” “Just a bunch of papers in the mail; that’s all.” They talked listlessly, in keeping with the langurous spirit of the night. The Mills house was plainly visible through the shrubbery. In his complete relaxation, his contentment at being near Millicent, Bruce’s thoughts traveled far afield while he murmured assent to what she was saying. The moonlit garden, its serenity hardly disturbed by the occasional whirr of a motor in the boulevard, invited to meditation, and Millicent was speaking almost as though she were thinking aloud in her musical voice that never lost its charm for him. “It’s easy to believe all manner of strange things on a night like this! I can even imagine that I was someone else once upon a time....”