Fanny told herself, before she went to bed Saturday night, that she hoped it would rain Sunday morning from seven to twelve. But when Princess woke her at seven-thirty, as per instructions left in penciled scrawl on the kitchen table, she turned to the window at once, and was glad, somehow, to find it sun-flooded. Princess, if you\'re mystified, was royal in name only—a biscuit-tinted lady, with a very black and no-account husband whose habits made it necessary for Princess to let herself into Fanny\'s four-room flat at seven every morning, and let herself out at eight every evening. She had an incredibly soft and musical voice, had Princess, and a cooking hand. She kept Fanny mended, fed and comfortable, and her only cross was that Fanny\'s taste in blouses (ultimately her property) ran to the severe and tailored.

“Mawnin\', Miss Fanny. There\'s a gep\'mun waitin\' to see yo\'.”

Fanny choked on a yawn. “A what!”

“Gep\'mun. Says yo-all goin\' picnickin\'. He\'s in the settin\' room, a-lookin\' at yo\' pictchah papahs. Will Ah fry yo\' up a li\'l chicken to pack along? San\'wiches ain\'t no eatin\' fo\' Sunday.”

Fanny flung back her covers, swung around to the side of the bed, and stood up, all, seemingly, in one sweeping movement. “Do you mean to tell me he\'s in there, now?”

From the sitting room. “I think I ought to tell you I can hear everything you\'re saying. Say. Fanny, those sketches of yours are——Why, Gee Whiz! I didn\'t know you did that kind of thing. This one here, with that girl\'s face in the crowd——”

“For heaven\'s sake!” Fanny demanded, “what are you doing here at seven-thirty? And I don\'t allow people to look at those sketches. You said eight-thirty.”

“I was afraid you\'d change your mind, or something. Besides, it\'s now twenty-two minutes to eight. And will you tell the lady that\'s a wonderful idea about the chicken? Only she\'d better start now.”

Goaded by time bulletins shouted through the closed door, Fanny found herself tubbed, clothed, and ready for breakfast by eight-ten. When she opened the door Clarence was standing in the center of her little sitting room, waiting, a sheaf of loose sketches in his hand.

“Say, look here! These are the real thing. Why, they\'re great! They get you. This old geezer with the beard, selling fish and looking like one of the Disciples. And this. What the devil are you doing in a mail order house, or whatever it is? Tell me that! When you can draw like this!”

“Good morning,” said Fanny, calmly. “And I\'ll tell you nothing before breakfast. The one thing that interests me this moment is hot coffee. Will you have some breakfast? Oh, well, a second one won\'t hurt you. You must have got up at three, or thereabouts.” She went toward the tiny kitchen. “Never mind, Princess. I\'ll wait on myself. You go on with that chicken.”

Princess was the kind of person who can fry a chicken, wrap it in cool, crisp lettuce leaves, box it, cut sandwiches, and come out of the process with an unruffled temper and an immaculate kitchen. Thanks to her, Fanny and Heyl found themselves on the eight fifty-three train, bound for the dunes.

Clarence swung his rucksack up to the bundle rack. He took off his cap, and stuffed it into his pocket. He was grinning like a schoolboy. Fanny turned from the window and smiled at what she saw in his face. At that he gave an absurd little bounce in his place, like an overgrown child, and reached over and patted her hand.

“I\'ve dreamed of this for years.”

“You\'re just fourteen, going on fifteen,” Fanny reproved him.

“I know it. And it\'s great! Won\'t you be, too? Forget you\'re a fair financier, or whatever they call it. Forget you earn more in a month than I do in six. Relax. Unbend. Loosen up. Don\'t assume that hardshell air with me. Just remember that I knew you when the frill of your panties showed below your skirt.”

“Clarence Heyl!”

But he was leaning past her, and pointing out of the window. “See that curtain of smoke off there? That\'s the South Chicago, and the Hammond and Gary steel mills. Wait till you see those smokestacks against the sky, and the iron scaffoldings that look like giant lacework, and the slag heaps, and the coal piles, and those huge, grim tanks. Gad! It\'s awful and beautiful. Like the things Pennell does.” “I came out here on the street car one day,” said Fanny, quietly. “One Sunday.”

“You did!” He stared at her.

“It was hot, and they were all spilling out into the street. You know, the women in wrappers, just blobs of flesh trying to get cool. And the young girls in their pink silk dresses and white shoes, and the boys on the street corners, calling to them. Babies all over the sidewalks and streets, and the men who weren\'t in the mills—you know how they look in their Sunday shirtsleeves, with their flat faces, and high cheekbones, and their great brown hands with the broken nails. Hunkies. Well, at five the motor cars began whizzing by from the country roads back to Chicago. You have to go back that way. Just then the five o\'clock whistles blew and the day shift came off. There was a great army of them, clumping down the road the way they do. Their shoulders were slack, and their lunch pails dangled, empty, and they were wet and reeking with sweat. The motor cars were full of wild phlox and daisies and spiderwort.”

Clarence was still turned sideways, looking at her. “Get a picture of it?”

“Yes. I tried, at least.”

“Is that the way you usually spend your Sundays?”

“Well, I—I like snooping about.”

“M-m,” mused Clarence. Then, “How\'s business, Fanny?”

“Business?” You could almost feel her mind jerk back. “Oh, let\'s not talk about business on Sunday.”

“I thought so,” said Clarence, enigmatically. “Now listen to me, Fanny.”

“I\'ll listen,” interrupted she, “if you\'ll talk about yourself. I want to know what you\'re doing, and why you\'re going to New York. What business can a naturalist have in New York, anyway?”

“I didn\'t intend to be a naturalist. You can tell that by looking at me. But you can\'t have your very nose rubbed up against trees, and rocks, and mountains, and snow for years and years without learning something about \'em. There were whole weeks when I hadn\'t anything to chum with but a timber-line pine and an odd assortment of mountain peaks. We just had to get acquainted.”

“But you\'re going back, aren\'t you? Don\'t they talk about the spell of the mountains, or some such thing?” “They do. And they\'re right. And I\'ve got to have them six months in the year, at least. But I\'m going to try spending the other six in the bosom of the human race. Not only that, I\'m going to write about it. Writing\'s my job, really. At least, it\'s the thing I like best.”

“Nature?”

“Human nature. I went out to Colorado just a lonesome little kid with a bum lung. The lung\'s all right, but I never did quite get over the other. Two years ago, in the mountains, I met Carl Lasker, who owns the New York Star. It\'s said to be the greatest morning paper in the country. Lasker\'s a genius. And he fries the best bacon I ever tasted. I took him on a four-weeks\' horseback trip through the mountains. We got pretty well acquainted. At the end of it he offered me a job. You see, I\'d never seen a chorus girl, or the Woolworth building, or a cabaret, or a broiled lobster, or a subway. But I was interested and curious about all of them. And Lasker said, `A man who can humanize a rock, or a tree, or a chipmunk ought to be able to make even those things seem human. You\'ve got what they call the fresh viewpoint. New York\'s full of people with a scum over their eyes, but a lot of them came to New York from Winnebago, or towns just like it, and you\'d be surprised at the number of them who still get their home town paper. One day, when I came into Lee Kohl\'s office, with stars, and leading men, and all that waiting outside to see him, he was sitting with his feet on the desk reading the Sheffield, Illinois, Gazette.\' You see, the thing he thinks I can do is to give them a picture of New York as they used to see it, before they got color blind. A column or so a day, about anything that hits me. How does that strike you as a job for a naturalist?”

“It\'s a job for a human naturalist. I think you\'ll cover it.”

If you know the dunes, which you probably don\'t, you know why they did not get off at Millers, with the crowd, but rode on until they were free of the Sunday picnickers. Then they got off, and walked across the tracks, past saloons, and a few huddled houses, hideous in yellow paint, and on, and on down a road that seemed endless. A stretch of cinders, then dust, a rather stiff little hill, a great length of yellow sand and—the lake! We say, the lake! like that, with an exclamation point after it, because it wasn\'t at all the Lake Michigan that Chicagoans know. This vast blue glory bore no relation to the sullen, gray, turbid thing that the city calls the lake. It was all the blues of which you\'ve ever heard, and every passing cloud gave it a new shade. Sapphire. No, cobalt. No, that\'s too cold. Mediterranean. Turquoise. And the sand in golden contrast. Miles of sand along the beach, and back of that the dunes. Now, any dictionary or Scotchman will tell you that a dune is a hill of loose sand. But these dunes are done in American fashion, lavishly. Mountains of sand, as far as the eye can see, and on the top of them, incredibly, great pine trees that clutch at their perilous, shifting foothold with frantic root-toes. And behind that, still more incredibly, the woods, filled with wild flowers, with strange growths found nowhere else in the whole land, with trees, and vines, and brush, and always the pungent scent of the pines. And there you have the dunes—blue lake, golden sand-hills, green forest, in one.

Fanny and Clarence stood there on the sand, in silence, two ridiculously diminutive figures in that great wilderness of beauty. I wish I could get to you, somehow, the clear sparkle of it, the brilliance of it, and yet the peace of it. They stood there a long while, those two, without speaking. Then Fanny shut her eyes, and I think her lower lip trembled just a little. And Clarence patted her hand just twice.

“I thank you,” he said, “in the name of that much-abused lady known as Nature.”

Said Fanny, “I want to scramble up to the top of one of those dunes—the high one—and just sit there.”

And that is what they did. A poor enough Sunday, I suppose, in the minds of those of you who spend yours golfing at the club, or motoring along grease-soaked roads that lead to a shore dinner and a ukulele band. But it turned Fanny Brandeis back a dozen years or more, so that she was again the little girl whose heart had ached at sight of the pale rose and, orange of the Wisconsin winter sunsets. She forgot all about layettes, and obstetrical outfits, and flannel bands, and safety pins; her mind was a blank in the matter of bootees, and catalogues, and our No. 29E8347, and those hungry bins that always yawned for more. She forgot about Michael Fenger, and Theodore, and the new furs. They scrambled up dunes, digging into the treacherous sand with heels, toes, and the side of the foot, and clutching at fickle roots with frantic fingers. Forward a step, and back two—that\'s dune climbing. A back-breaking business, unless you\'re young and strong, as were these two. They explored the woods, and Heyl had a fascinating way of talking about stones and shrubs and trees as if they were endowed with human qualities—as indeed they were for him. They found a hill-slope carpeted with dwarf huckleberry plants, still bearing tiny clusters of the blue-black fruit. Fanny\'s heart was pounding, her lungs ached, her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes shining. Heyl, steel-muscled, took the hills like a chamois. Once they crossed hands atop a dune and literally skated down it, right, left, right, left, shrieking with laughter, and ending in a heap at the bottom. “In the name of all that\'s idiotic!” shouted Heyl. “Silk stockings! What in thunder made you wear silk stockings! At the sand dunes! Gosh!”

They ate their dinner in olympic splendor, atop a dune. Heyl produced unexpected things from the rucksack—things that ranged all the way from milk chocolate to literature, and from grape juice to cigarettes. They ate ravenously, but at Heyl\'s thrifty suggestion they saved a few sandwiches for the late afternoon. It was he, too, who made a little bonfire of papers, crusts, and bones, as is the cleanly habit of your true woodsman. Then they stretched out, full length, in the noon sun, on the warm, clean sand.

“What\'s your best price on one-sixth doz. flannel vests?” inquired Heyl.

And, “Oh, shut up!” said Fanny, elegantly. Heyl laughed as one who hugs a secret.

“We\'ll work our way down the beach,” he announced, “toward Millers. There\'ll be northern lights to-night; did you know that? Want to stay and see them?”

“Do I want to! I won\'t go home till I have.”

These were the things they did on that holiday; childish, happy, tiring things, such as people do who love the outdoors.

The charm of Clarence Heyl—for he had charm—is difficult to transmit. His lovableness and appeal lay in his simplicity. It was not so much what he said as in what he didn\'t say. He was staring unwinkingly now at the sunset that had suddenly burst upon them. His were the eyes of one accustomed to the silent distances.

“Takes your breath away, rather, doesn\'t it? All that color?” said Fanny, her face toward the blaze.

“Almost too obvious for my taste. I like \'em a little more subdued, myself.” They were atop a dune, and he stretched himself flat on the sand, still keeping his bright brown eyes on lake and sky. Then he sat up, excitedly. “Heh,............