It was April in New England, but here at Elaine it was May—warm, verdant, fragrant May. To be sure, they called it April, but John, sprawled out on his back on the terrace before the house, with the soft swaying of branches above him and the sun-flecks dancing back and forth across his face, knew better. It was utter nonsense to pretend that only five days had passed since they had left Cambridge. He took his pipe from the corner of his mouth, gripped his hands anew under his head, sighed luxuriously and closed his eyes.

The morning world was filled with sound, with warmth, with colour. From the direction of the stables came the whinnying of a young colt in paddock; the turkeys, peafowls and chickens uttered their notes which, discordant in themselves, yet fitted harmoniously into the great chorus as the growling of the bassoon, the rasping of the bass-viol or the shrilling of the piccolo fits into and lends completeness to a full orchestral effect. Birds, thousands of them, it seemed, piped and trilled, chirped and bubbled—feathered flutes and ’cellos and clarionettes, tossing their melody into the soft air from swaying tree-top or dropping it from leaf-hidden branch to filter downward with the dripping sunbeams. Bees were abroad, too, workers and drones, adding their booming bass to the symphony, while through all, the wind and the leaves, masters of melody, supplied a low, murmurous strain, insistent yet unobtrusive, the theme of Nature’s spring-song.

And for this performance what a stage-setting was there! Overhead, the bluest blue that ever poet sang or artist strove to catch, and against it a few soft, fluffy clouds, caught here and there against the heavens like clots of snowy foam. Below, wide, far-stretching fields and hillsides of new, tender green arabesqued with winding brown roads, vine-decked fences and shimmering blue water laughing through bordering trees. Fields were no longer bare expanses of warm, upturned loam; they were carpets of green velvet. Far and near the trees were in leaf, some fully arrayed for the summer, others just trying on their new garments with bashful diffidence. And what a wealth, what a bewildering variety of greens they presented! Golden-greens and russet-greens, blue-greens and gray-greens, the green of chrysoberyl and of emerald; every hue and tint and gradation of tint!

The far hills were asleep in the sunlight under slumber-robes of palest mauve. In the direction of Melville fantastic spirals and swirls of smoke and steam arose and melted into the sky. Here and there a farmhouse peered out from an embowering group of trees. Half a mile away a great blue wagon, drawn by six horses, jolted along the road; and the creaking of the great wheels, the voice of the driver and the tinkling of the bells came, mellowed by distance, up the hill. John lifted his head lazily and watched it for a moment. Behind him Elaine basked, white-walled and pillared, leaf-shadowed, in the sunlight. Flowers blossomed and the air was redolent of their perfume.

Presently John raised himself on his elbow, yawned and looked about him. In the shadow of the portico Phillip was stretched fast asleep in a steamer chair, the magazine which he had been reading a half-hour ago sprawling with rumpled leaves beside him where it had fallen from his hands. Maid dozed beside him.

“Lazy beggar,” muttered John virtuously.

He recovered his pipe from the grass, thereby interfering with the interested examination of a black ant, and filled it slowly, his gaze loitering lovingly across the landscape.

“It seems too good to be true,” he said to himself, bringing his feet together tailor-fashion and scratching a sputtering match on the sole of one broad shoe. “I can’t imagine a man wanting anything better than this.” He lighted his pipe and sent a column of soft gray smoke up into the branches of the big oak. “To know that this big, beautiful chunk of God’s earth is yours, with its fields and forests, hills and streams, yours to do with as you wish——” He shook his head eloquently and blew another cloud of smoke into the sunlight. “To be master of it! To plow its soil and seed it; to cut its timber and build upon it—— To the dickens with your wire nails and your stuffy offices; to the deuce with cities and clubs and white waistcoats; to the——” Language again failed him. He blew more smoke.

“There’s everything here to hand,” he went on again; “timber for planks—there ought to be a sawmill, though—stone for foundations, gravel for road-building—a whole hill of it ready for the quarrying—clay for bricks. A man could pretty near get everything he needed off the land; he might have to send to Melville for window-glass and doorknobs. I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if there was ochre somewhere about; a chap could grind his own paint.

“There’s the site for the house over yonder—‘yonder’s’ appropriately Southern, by the way—on that round hill,” he thought, taking his pipe from his mouth and pointing with the stem as though he had a listener. “It’s almost as high as this; there can’t be more than twenty feet difference, I guess—that is, I reckon. There’d be about three acres of lawn, and the drive would sweep up to it in a long, easy curve. I’d have the building face the east, of course. The stables and outbuildings would be strung together about half-way down the farther slope, toward the creek bottom. There’d be no use trying to build a Southern style house so long as Elaine stood here to make it look like thirty cents. No; a modified old English would be best, something long and low and hospitable looking. Ten or twelve thousand ought to pay for it. We mustn’t be extravagant at first; we’ve our living to make.”

He relighted his pipe, which had gone out, and lay back, leaning on one elbow. Over at the stable Will was cleaning a harness and singing softly in the sunlight. A peafowl approached tentatively and viewed John’s recumbent and motionless form with suspicious eye, her neck stretched forth ludicrously, her expressionless, unblinking eyes like beads of glass.

“Oh, rubber!” muttered John. He tossed a pebble at her and she turned with a disgusted squawk and hurried away. He went on with his dreaming.

“I’d get Markham, if I could; Phil would scarcely need him, I should think. He ought to go with the place, anyhow, like any other fixture. He’s a genuinely good fellow, and I guess, as Phil says, he’s the best overseer in the county. I think, with Markham here, I could make it go from the start. Of course, there’d be somewhat of an outlay at first. I can see where twenty or thirty thousand could be sunk without trouble; yes, easily that. I guess dad was about right when he put it at fifty thousand.

“There’d be plenty of hard work, and that’s what I want—work that’ll make a fellow hungry and tired and sleepy. But I’d be going ahead all the time; every day’s labour would show, and the end would be worth toiling for. It’d be just the kind of work that’s more than half pleasure. And there’d be plenty of fun, too. There’s the shooting; and there’d be a few good nags and some dogs; and I’d have Davy down here often, of course; maybe he’d stay awake if he was riding to hounds. And I’d lay out a links and teach the natives to play golf; there’s old Colonel What’s-his-name—Brownell, isn’t it? He’s a regular old sport, and I’ll bet he’d take hold in great style. And there’s Phil, and some of those chaps in town; also there’s ‘Uncle Bob’—he’d come any old time, I guess, and stay as long as there was a drop of liquor left. Oh, I wouldn’t want for society. Only if—if what I want happens they can all go hang!

“If!” he sighed and shook his head. “So much depends on ‘if’! I’ll know some day.” He took a letter from his pocket and looked at it, tapping it approvingly with his knuckles. It bore a foreign stamp and postmark and had the appearance of having been carried about in that pocket for some time. Presently he drew forth the inclosure and began to read:

John smiled and returned the thin, crinkly sheets to their envelope. “Dad’s a mighty good sort,” he told himself warmly. “But he’ll never get a chance to buy me out; not in a thousand years. This thing is going to go! If—oh, hang that ‘if’! I’m going to settle it right now!”

He sprang to his feet with a sudden squaring of his shoulders, knocked the tobacco from his pipe and strode toward the house. As he went up the steps Phillip stirred and opened his eyes, blinking wonderingly.

“I must have been asleep, I reckon,” he said drowsily.

“I reckon you were,” laughed John. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a two-year-old.” He stretched his arms over his head, yawned, and smiled contentedly up into the other’s face. “This is great, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes; great! I wish I was going to stay for more of it.”

“Oh, you’re not going to-morrow,” Phillip replied.

“I think I am, though.” After a pause he continued: “There’s just one thing that can keep me, Phil, and I’m greatly afraid that it isn’t going to happen.”

“What is it? I’ll make it happen!”

“You couldn’t,” laughed John, moving toward the door.

“But—— Here, hold on! What is it?” cried Phillip. But John’s footsteps were dying away in the hall, and Phillip moved as though to follow, hesitated, yawned again, closed his eyes sleepily and presently dozed off once more. A great bumble-bee, lumbering majestically about in a new spring suit of black velvet, spied the gay-hued colour of the neglected magazine and settled down upon a lithographed spray of apple blossoms with an anticipatory boom of pleasure. There followed a moment of pregnant silence. Then he arose, quivering with amazement and disgust, and circled off into the golden air, buzzing loud tidings of the deception.

The sun rose higher and higher and the shadow of the house crept inch by inch across the portico floor. In the trees the tireless birds sang on and on, allegro, adagio, scherzo, over and over, a pÆan of exquisite joy. At the stable the colt lay asleep in the paddock, and before the door, with a half-cleaned bridle over his knees, Will slumbered peacefully in the sunshine. From the cool, dim hall came eleven soft and silvery chimes from the old rosewood clock.