"I don't know. I don't believe I am, very. Don't you think the kind of life Matt's trying to live is better?" "Your brother is the best man I ever knew--" "Oh, isn't he? Magnificent!" "But life means business. Even literary life, as I understand it, means business." "And can't you think--can't you wish--for anything better than the life that means business?" she asked, she almost entreated. "Why should you ever wish to go back to the world? If you could live in the country away from society, and all its vanity and vexation of spirit, why wouldn't you rather lead a literary life that didn't mean business?" "But how? Are you proposing a public subscription, or a fairy godmother?" asked Maxwell. "No; merely the golden age. I'm just supposing the case," said Louise. "You were born in Arcady, you know," she added, with a wistful smile. "Arcady is a good place to emigrate from," said Maxwell, with a smile that was not wistful. "It's like Vermont, where I was born, too. And if I owned the whole of Arcady, I should have no use for it till I had seen what the world had to offer. Then I might like it for a few months in the summer." "Yes," she sighed faintly, and suddenly she rose, and said, "I must go and put the finishing touches. Good-by, Mr. Maxwell"--she mechanically gave him her hand. "I hope you will soon be well enough to get back to the world again." "Thank you," he said, in surprise. "But the great trial you were going to make of my patience, my docility--" She caught away her hand. "Oh, that wasn't anything. I've decided not. Good-by! Don't go through the empty form of coming back to the house with me. I'll take your adieus to mamma." She put the cushion into the hammock. "You had better stay and try to get a nap, and gather strength for the battle of life as fast as you can." She spoke so gayly and lightly, that Maxwell, with all his subtlety, felt no other mood in her. He did not even notice, till afterwards, that she had said nothing about their meeting again. He got into the hammock, and after a while he drowsed, with a delicious, poetic sense of her capricious charm, as she drifted back to the farmhouse, over the sloping meadow. He visioned a future in which fame had given him courage to tell her his love. Mrs. Hilary knew from her daughter's face that something had happened; but she knew also that it was not what she dreaded. PART THIRD. I.