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"But there's one," said Lydia, "that's sweeter than the whole house put together. Have you fallen in love with it, Anne? It's that low, big room back of the stairs. You go down two steps into it. There's a grape-vine over the window. Whose chamber is that, Farvie?" He stood perfectly still by the mantel, and the old look of introspective pain, almost of a surprised terror, crossed his face.
Through the short night she dreamed confusedly, always a dream about offering Farvie a supper tray, and his saying: "No, I never mean to eat again." And then the tray itself seemed to be the trouble, and it had to be filled all over. But nobody wanted the food. In the early morning she awoke with the sun full upon her, for she had been too tired the night before to close a blind.
Does anything worry you?" "No," said Lydia soberly. She looked absent-minded, as if she sought about for what did worry her. "You don't think your father's working too hard, planting?" "Oh, no! It's good for him. He gets frightfully tired. They both do. But Farvie sleeps and eats and smokes. And laughs! That's Jeffrey. He can always make Farvie laugh."
To-day's paper had quite a long synopsis of the case." Now Lydia flushed and looked defiant. "I am glad to know that," she said. "I must burn the paper. Farvie sha'n't see it." "There were two reporters here yesterday," said Esther. She spoke angrily now. Her voice hinted that this was an indignity which need not have been put upon her.
Farvie looked about over the orchard, under its foam of white and pink; his eyes suffused and he put his delicate lips firmly together. But all he said was: "They haven't kept the trees very well pruned." "There's Anne," said Lydia, loosing her hold of his sleeve. She ran light-footedly back to Anne, and patted her with warm receptiveness.
Did you ever imagine a brick wall like that? Who built it, Farvie? Who built the brick wall?" Farvie was standing with his hands behind him, thinking back, the girls knew well, over the years. A mournful quiet was in his face.
"You could have the blue chamber, couldn't he, Farvie? and do your writing there." Lydia flashed her a reproachful glance. She would have scattered his papers and spilled the ink, rather than have him do a deed like that. If he did it, it was not with her good-will. Jeff had drawn his frown the tighter. "I don't know whether I can do it," he said. "A man has got to know how to write."
"You'd better have come with us," said Anne. "It was very nice. Farvie told me things." "Yes," said Lydia, "I wish I had." "Without your hat, too," pursued Anne anxiously. "I don't know whether they do that here." Lydia remembered Reardon, and thought she knew. They went to bed early, in a low state of mind.
"He calls you so because he's done it in his mind," she said, "for years and years. Your name wasn't enough. Farvie felt so affectionate." The last word sounded silly to her, and her cheeks were so hot they seemed to scald her eyes and melt out tears in them. Jeffrey gave her a little quizzical look, and slipped his arm through his father's. Anne, at the look, was suddenly relieved.
The chin, she thought, was lovable. The eyes were large and blue; stern, it seemed, but really from the habit of the forehead that had been scarred with deepest lines. The high cheekbones gave him an odd look as if she saw him in bronze. They stared at each other and Jeffrey thought he ought to assure her he wasn't a tramp, when Lydia found her voice. "I'll tell Farvie," said she.
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