The next day dawned warm and fair. After breakfast John lounged out to the porch, while Phillip went upstairs to see his mother, on whom the excitement of the evening before had told not a little. “Uncle Bob” had not appeared at breakfast, but had sent word that he had a touch of gout and would stay in his room for awhile. The message summoned a wink from Phillip and caused Margaret to smile demurely behind the coffee urn.

John lighted a cigar and seated himself in the sun with his back against one of the ferocious lions, one knee well up under his chin and his heel kicking idly at the granite block. Before him the driveway swept sloping away invitingly toward the park gate. He wondered whether Margaret would go for a stroll with him if he penetrated to the kitchen regions and asked her. He had made up his mind to go in search of her, when footsteps sounded behind him and Margaret appeared in the doorway. He tossed away his cigar and jumped to his feet.
 
“Won’t you come out?” he begged. “It’s so nice here in the sun.” She nodded smilingly, disappeared, and in a moment came out with a little cape about her shoulders. John pulled forward a chair, but she took a seat on the step and he went back to his lion. For awhile they talked of the dance, of the townsfolk, of gout-ridden “Uncle Bob,” of Virginia weather, and finally of Cambridge and the approaching term.

“And in June you’re all through college?” asked Margaret. “Are you sorry?”

“Yes, I think so. I’m glad that I’m through with it and sorry I’ve got to go away. One gets to know so many good fellows, and grows to like Cambridge so well that he rather hates to pack up for good. My roommate—his name’s Meadowcamp; perhaps Phil has spoken of him? After he finished last year he began a graduate course. I’ve always told him that it was because he was too lazy to move away. But now, just lately, I’ve begun to think that it was chiefly because Davy hated to leave college; a fellow gets so used to it all in the four years. I know that I shall feel rather lost and out of it when September comes and I find I’m not back in Cambridge.” He paused and looked thoughtfully[282] across the lawn. “Davy—Meadowcamp, you know—wants me to take a graduate course, and I’m almost tempted to do it. But—well, there would be little use in it. It isn’t as though I was preparing myself for something definite, you see. I suppose I could study law. That’s a good excuse for staying there; but I haven’t the slightest desire to become a lawyer. I’d never win a case, I know.”

“What are you going to be?” Margaret asked. John smiled, then frowned and gave a shrug.

“That’s the question,” he answered. “My father would like me to take hold of his business with him. He makes wire nails in an immense ugly brick building that covers acres of ground in Worcester. Perhaps I shall. I don’t like it, though. Besides, my father isn’t really as keen about it as he used to be. A few years ago he owned the whole thing himself and thought of nothing else but wire nails—almost lived in his office and just about ruined his health; he’s been abroad now for three years as a result. Then the trust came along and gobbled up the factory. Father’s vice-president of the trust now and makes much more money than he used to; but he isn’t specially happy and he has rather lost interest. It isn’t the same as being the whole thing[283] yourself, you see, Miss Ryerson. And I don’t believe he’d feel very badly if I balked at wire nails.”

“But what do you want to be?” Margaret leaned forward, her chin in her hand, and observed him curiously.

“I don’t know,” replied John vexedly. “I wish I did. I’ve often wished that we had just enough money to live on quietly; then, I guess, I’d have to be something, and I should probably know what. Just now it looks as though I should be a loafer. Do you like loafers, Miss Ryerson?”

Margaret shook her head.

“Then I shan’t be one,” he said, smilingly. “I——” He stopped and studied his hands for a moment. “When I said I don’t know what I want to be I wasn’t quite telling the truth. I do know what I want to be and what I want to do. Only it seems so idiotic that I’m rather ashamed to tell you.” He looked up for encouragement and found it in the little grave smile she gave.

“Well, since I came down here and have seen this country, and seen the jolly, quiet, healthful sort of life you Virginians lead, I—I’ve wanted to come here, too, and live among these hills and fields. I’d[284] like to buy land here and farm it, and ride and hunt and shoot now and then, and wear out my old clothes, and live quietly and contentedly and respectably all my life and die of gout at a good old age.”

Margaret laughed quietly and shook her head. “I’m glad you like our country and the way we live,” she said gravely, “but I don’t think it would do for you. You’d like it well enough at first, I don’t doubt; but then you’d get tired of our humdrum life and tired of farming, and you’d long to get back to the world you know. Besides, there’s more in farming than appears on the surface, Mr. North, and I fear you couldn’t learn it in a year, or even five.”

“I know that. And when I said farming I was thinking of cattle.”

“But what I said of farming is just as true of cattle. I’m afraid it wouldn’t pay.”

“But I wouldn’t care a great deal if it didn’t. It would be an occupation. Lots of occupations don’t pay.”

“You’d be just a kind of idler, then, wouldn’t you? I mean, you wouldn’t be accomplishing anything for yourself or for any one else. It’s so[285] easy to do things that don’t pay and that lead to nothing.”

“You’re terribly discouraging,” laughed John, more than half vexed. “For that matter, perhaps it would pay. I could get a good overseer and let him do the managing.”

“While you did the riding and shooting and hunting and acquired the gout?” She shook her head. “That wouldn’t do.”

“Well,” he answered, “I hadn’t thought very seriously of trying it, Miss Ryerson, but now—I believe I’ll do it if only to show you that I can.”

“I should be sorry to have anything I’ve said lead you into losing your money, Mr. North. And so I’ll take everything back. You could do it beautifully; being a Northerner, you would, of course, understand our way of doing things; having had a good college education you would, naturally, be thoroughly fitted to buy and sell cattle at a profit; and good overseers are found everywhere; and with a good overseer—— But, dear me, what am I saying? Without a good overseer, Mr. North, there is not the least doubt in the world but that you’d become immensely wealthy in a very short time—say two or three years.”

[286]

She still leaned with chin in palm, and the little smiling, half-mocking expression in the warm brown eyes tempted John to do rash things. With an effort he laughed lightly.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. “I’m an idiot to think of such things. And it is only kindness, I know, that prompts you to show me my absolute incapacity and impracticability. Only—well, it’s a bit jarring to my vanity.”

“That’s not kind,” she answered. “I’ve said nothing about incapacity. I know you’re not incapable; Phil has told us enough about you to prove that, Mr. North. And I reckon you’re very practical. Maybe you could come here and buy land and make it pay you; I think you could if any Northerner could. There,” she smiled, “does your vanity feel better?”

“Much, thank you.”

“But,” she continued, serious again, “I don’t think even you could do it. We’re different from you people; we do things differently; we’re slower and easier-going; I reckon we’re what you say we are—shiftless.”

John strove to expostulate, but she went on:

“But it’s our way—the way we were taught and[287] brought up and the way we’re used to. And you’d have trouble with your hands, too. Negroes aren’t what they were once; they’re shiftless and lazy, and won’t work except when they have to—at least, that’s true of the negroes around here. Good overseers are hard to find, Mr. North, and there aren’t many at the best. If you could find one, perhaps—— But I wouldn’t make the experiment.”

“Thank you. I’ve no doubt but that what you say is true; I’m sure you must know if any one does. Although,” he added, “it sounds odd to hear you talking about these things so intimately.”

“I suppose it does, but I’ve learned them; and I’ve seen one or two experiments of the sort you speak of tried hereabouts. At least, you must acknowledge that I am disinterested, Mr. North. I might have encouraged you and then sold you part of Elaine. You know it is for sale?”

“Yes,” answered John, “I know. It’s a shame, Miss Ryerson. I shouldn’t think you could stand the thought of—of parting with it.”

“I can’t. And so I don’t think of it—much.”

“But—wouldn’t it be possible to do something else? Couldn’t you lease it?”

“We might, but that would only be putting off[288] the inevitable. I reckon you don’t know how poor we are, Mr. North,” she said with a little troubled smile. “I think I’d like to tell you. Even mamma doesn’t know—quite.”

“I shall feel honoured, Miss Ryerson,” he answered earnestly. “But if it—well, if it hurts to talk about it, please don’t.”

“I think it would do me good to tell some one,” she answered gravely. “And since we’ve already made a sort of—family counselor of you, Mr. North, I know you won’t mind playing the part of a father confessor, too. Your kindness to Phil and to us——”

“Please don’t say anything more about that, Miss Ryerson,” John pleaded. “I feel like a hypocrite whenever you mention my services. If you only knew how very little I’ve done—scarcely anything, really—and what a pleasure that little has been, you’d understand that all the obligation is on my part.”

Margaret shook her head again as one unconvinced.

“I won’t speak of it if you don’t wish it,” she said softly, “but I shall always remember it and shall always be very, very grateful.” She turned away[289] from him, clasped her hands over one knee and looked off across the sloping lawn and meadow. Then: “I fear, though, you don’t believe very strongly in our—in my gratitude after—after my rudeness to you.” Her head was turned farther away until he could see only one cheek, on which the colour came and went as she spoke.

“Rudeness!” he exclaimed. “Great heavens, please don’t say that! You weren’t rude enough! You——”

“I behaved very childishly,” she continued, without, however, turning toward him. “I want to ask your pardon and I want you to know that—that my behaviour didn’t mean that I wasn’t grateful to you all the time. We—we’re rather barbarians down here, Mr. North, and have tempers!”

“Miss Ryerson! Margaret! I beg your pardon,” he caught himself up. “But please don’t talk about asking my pardon. I ought to have asked yours long ago! I do now! I behaved like a brute that day. I know I did. But—but won’t you please believe that I didn’t mean any disrespect? You must believe that! Won’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered instantly. “I didn&rs............