The door of the bungalow stood wide open. Mary paused in rapture over the rich beds of wood violets that carpeted the spaces between the drive and the log walls.

“Aren\'t they beautiful!” she cried. “A perfect carpet of dazzling green and purple!”

“Come right in,” the Doctor urged from the steps. “My neighbor\'s a patient of mine. He hasn\'t moved in yet but he told me always to make myself at home.”

Mary lifted the boy from his wagon, tied the goat and led the child into the house. The Doctor showed her through without comment. None was needed. The woman\'s keen eye saw at a glance the perfection of care with which the master builder had wrought the slightest detail of every room. The floors were immaculate native hard-wood—its grain brought out through shining mirrors of clean varnish. There was not one shoddy piece of work from the kitchen sink to the big open fireplace in the spacious hall and living-room.

“It\'s exquisite!” she exclaimed at last. “It seems all hand-made—doesn\'t it?”

“It is, too. The owner literally built it with his own hands—a work of love.”

“For himself?” Mary asked with a smile.

“For the woman he loves, of course! My neighbor\'s a sort of crank and insisted on expressing himself in this way. Come, I want you to see two rooms upstairs.”

He led her into the room Jim had built for his wife.

“Observe this furniture, if you please.”

“Don\'t tell me that he built that too?” she laughed.

“That\'s exactly what I\'m going to tell you.”

“Impossible!” she protested. “Why, the line and finish would do credit to the finest artisan in America.”

“So I say. Look at the perfect polish of that table! It\'s like the finish of a rosewood piano.” He touched the smooth surface.

“Of course you\'re joking?” Mary answered. “No amateur could have done such work.”

“So I\'d have said if I had not seen him do it.”

“What on earth possessed him to undertake such a task?”

“The love of a beautiful woman—what else?”

“He learned a trade—just to furnish this room with his own hand?”

“Yes.”

“His love must be the real thing,” she mused.

“That\'s what I\'ve said. Look at this iron work, too—the stately andirons in that big fireplace, the shovel, the tongs, and the massive strop-hinges on the doors.”

“He did that, too?” she asked in amazement.

“Every piece of iron on the place he beat out with his own hand at his forge.”

“And all for the love of a woman? The age of romance hasn\'t passed after all, has it?”

“No.”

Mary paused before the window looking south.

“What a glorious view!” she cried. “It\'s even grander than yours, Doctor.”

“Yes. I claim some of the credit, though, for that. I helped him lay out the grounds.”

“Who is this remarkable man?” she asked at last.

“A friend of mine. I\'ll............