V

           Thelittlehouse,asGlennardstrolleduptoitbetweenthetrees,seemednomorethanagaytentpitchedagainstthesunshine.Ithadthecrispnessofafreshlystarchedsummergown,andthegeraniumsontheverandabloomedassimultaneouslyastheflowersinabonnet.Thegardenwasprosperingabsurdly.Seedtheyhadsownatrandom—amidlaughingcounter-chargesofincompetence—hadshotupinfragrantdefianceoftheirblunders.Hesmiledtoseetheclematisunfoldingitspunctualwingsabouttheporch.Thetinylawnwassmoothasashavencheek,andacrimsonramblermountedtothenursery-windowofababywhonevercried.Abreezeshooktheawningabovethetea-table,andhiswife,ashedrewnear,couldbeseenbendingaboveakettlethatwasjustabouttoboil.Sovividlydidthewholescenesuggestthepaintedblissofastagesetting,thatitwouldhavebeenhardlysurprisingtoseeherstepforwardamongtheflowersandtrillouthervirtuoushappinessfromtheveranda-rail.

           Thestaleheatofthelongdayintown,thedustypromiscuityofthesuburbantrainwerenowbuttherequisitefoiltoaneveningofscentedbreezesandtranquiltalk.Theyhadbeenmarriedmorethanayear,andeachhome-comingstillreflectedthefreshnessoftheirfirstdaytogether.If,indeed,theirhappinesshadaflaw,itwasinresemblingtoocloselythebrightimpermanenceoftheirsurroundings.Theirloveasyetwasbutthegaytentofholiday-makers.

           Hiswifelookedupwithasmile.Thecountrylifesuitedher,andherbeautyhadgaineddepthfromastillnessinwhichcertainfacesmighthavegrownopaque.