“Oh, she’ll continue her gardening. I’ve had an offer of two thousand dollars for it. One thousand down, five hundred in one year, and the balance in eighteen months. We can live a long time abroad on that. And I shall get hold of something then. We’ll never come back here.” I did not mind that at all. The prospect was dazzling. But I saw I should have to tell him at once. “You didn’t know your poor painter would take you to Europe, did you? Think of Rome, think of Paris, think of being domesticated in some ancient German city while I paint!” “Oh, I think of it, Julian; but could you go without me?” “Could I go without you?” said Julian, setting me off on the tip of his knees. “Did I ever go to any place without you? Didn’t I manage that jaunt up to Canada with you? Did I scour out to Colorado and leave you at home? Do you _want_ me to go without you?” “Oh, no!” “Then what are you talking about?” “I don’t know.” “You certainly don’t know,” said Julian severely, “if you think I would go off to Europe for even a limited time, to say nothing of an indefinite time, without _you_. Why, you great baby, you’d cry your eyes out! And if you got sick who would do you up in packs and give you your medicine? You can’t get along away from me.” “I know it, Julian.” “And where would you stay!” continued Julian with increasing indignation. “You wouldn’t want to keep up a house, and you wouldn’t want to board. And what business would you have over here by yourself, anyhow! You provoke me!” “I believe I’m going to cry,” I said. “I should think you would, for proposing such a thing. But don’t do it.” “I _am_ going to cry,” I affirmed, and put my hands up to my face, while I quivered all over. These mute fits of sobbing, relics of my babyhood which I try so hard to outgrow, seize me unreasonably. They take away every scrap of dignity. I never could get the best end of a quarrel on account of this weakness; for who could sweep out of a room with a stinging retort, when at the door she was sure to break down, lay her cheek against the frame, and sob until every fibre in her seemed melting! The only good effect of my crying, besides the delicious languor it left over me, was that it melted Julian also. I have known it to be a very convenient solvent when he hardened himself into a male tyrant. His face was sure to relax and his motherly arms to gather me in. Some men will run from tears, and very disagreeable men they are. Julian seems to like the soaking. It is tribute to him as a man, and certifies to his grip on my individuality. He is convinced I am very fond of him, and dependent on his gracious favor, when I creep to his knees to cry. Julian wiped my tears and comforted me upon his shoulder, his face assuming its usual superior expression. When I got my breath and knew that I could talk becomingly between little hiccoughs, I told him the message I had from T’férgore, and he saw at once how it would prevent the European trip.