"The angels can't look very different when they sleep, I think,"
murmured its mother, hanging over the couch.
When Mary returned, she found her husband picking caterpillars off the
vine: Long Jim, odd man now about house and garden, was not industrious
enough to keep the pests under. In this brief spell of leisure--such
moments grew ever rarer in Richard's life--husband and wife locked
their arms and paced slowly up and down the verandah. It was late
afternoon on a breathless, pale-skied February day; and the boards of
the flooring gritted with sandy dust beneath their feet.
"He WAS grumpy this afternoon, wasn't he?" said Mary, without preamble.
"But I've noticed once or twice lately that he can't take a joke any
more. He's grown queer altogether. Do you know he's the only person who
still persists in calling me by my old name? He was quite rude about it
when I asked him why. Perhaps he's liverish, from the heat. It might be
a good thing, dear, if you went round and overhauled him. Somehow, it
seems unnatural for Purdy to be bad-tempered."
"It's true he may be a bit out of sorts. But I fear the evil's
deeper-seated. It's my opinion the boy is tiring of regular work. Now that
he hasn't even the excitement of the gold-escort to look forward to. . . .
And he's been a rolling stone from the beginning, you know."
"If only he would marry and settle down! I do wish I could find a wife
for him. The right woman could make anything of Purdy"; and yet once
more Mary fruitlessly scanned, in thought, the lists of her
acquaintance.
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