Athalie

"I haven't a doubt of it," he said with gravity.

[Illustration: "'There is your extra,' she said pleasantly."] "Wonderful, Clive! And I think I'd better get in on the ground floor

before values go sky-rocketing. Do you want a commission from me?"

"Of course."

"Very well. Buy me the old Hotel Greensleeve."

He smiled; but she said with pretty seriousness: "I really have been

thinking about it. Do you suppose it could be bought reasonably? It's

really a pretty place. And there's a hundred acres--or there was.... I

would like to have a modest house somewhere in the country."

"Are you in earnest, Athalie?"

"Really I am.... Couldn't that old house be fixed over inexpensively?

You know it's nearly two hundred years old, and the lines are good if

the gingerbread verandas and modern bay windows are done away with."

He nodded; and she went on with shy enthusiasm: "I don't really know

anything about gardens, except I know that I should adore them.... I

thought of a garden--just a simple one.... And some cows and chickens.

And one nice old horse.... It is really very pretty there in spring

and summer. And the bay is so blue, and the salt meadows are so

sweet.... And the cemetery is near.... I should not wish to alter

mother's room very much.... I'd turn the bar into a sun parlour....

But I'd keep the stove ... where you and I sat that evening and ate

peach turnovers.... About how much do you suppose the place could be

bought for?"

"I haven't the least idea, Athalie. But I'll see what can be done

to-morrow.... It ought to be a good purchase. You can scarcely go

wrong on Long Island property if you buy it right."

"Will you see about it, Clive?"

"Of course I will, you dear girl!" he said, dropping his hand over

hers where it lay between them.

She smiled up at him. Then, distrait, turned her blue eyes toward the

window, and remained gazing out at the late afternoon sky where a few

white clouds were sailing.

"'Clouds and ships on sky, and sea,'" she murmured to herself....

"'And God always at the helm.' Why do men worry? All sail into the

same port at last."

He bent over her: "What are you murmuring all to yourself down there?"

he asked, smilingly.

"Nothing much,--I'm just watching the driftsam and flotsam borne on

the currents flowing through my mind--flowing through it and out

again--away, somewhere--back to the source of thought, perhaps."