Mrs. Fisher has drawn a delightfully human family, with its hardworking, reliable father, its sensitive, poetic little daughter who says "queer things," two small boys, one stodgy and responsible, the other a lovable, selfish baby, and, holding them all together the beautiful, musician mother who asks over and over the questions "What is the use of" her prim convention bound existence and her doubtful instruction of her children. The question is answered as satisfactorily as it is asked.
it, as long as I have you," he said confidently.
"And I refuse to live a minute, if it goes back on me!" she cried.
"I imagine that old folks would think we are talking very young," suggested the man casually.
"Don't speak of them!" She cast them away into non-existence with a gesture.
They sank into a reverie, smiling to themselves.
"How the fountains shone in the sun, that day," she murmured; "the spray they cast on us was all tiny opals and diamonds."
"You're sure you aren't going to be sorry to go back to America to live, to leave all that?" asked the man. "I get anxious about that sometimes. It seems an awful jump to go away from such beautiful historic things, back to a narrow little mountain town."
"I'd like to know what right you have to call it narrow, when you've never even seen it," she returned.
"Well, anybody could make a pretty fair guess that a small Vermont town isn't going to be so very wide," he advanced reasonably.
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