to him eagerly, "Why don't you become an explorer, and find old cities or – or the North Pole, or something?"
Mr. Weatherby, who was studying a fine scarab, nodded.
"I have thought of it, I believe. I think the idea appealed to me once. But, don't you see, it takes a kind of genius for those things. Discoverers are born, I imagine, as well as poets. Besides" – he lowered his voice to a pitch that was meant for tenderness – "at the North Pole I should be so far from you – unless," he added, reflectively, "we went there on our wedding journey."
"Which we are as likely to do as to go anywhere," she said, rather crossly. They passed through the corridor of statuary and up the stairway to wander among the paintings of masters old and young. By a wall where the works of Van Dyck, Rembrandt and Velasquez hung, she turned on him reproachfully.
"These men have left something behind them," she commented – "something which the world will preserve and honor. What will you leave behind you?"
"I fear it won't be a picture," he said humbly. "I can't imagine one of my paintings being hung here or any place else. They might hang the painter, of course, though not just here, I fancy."
In another room they lingered before a painting of a boy and a girl driving home the cows – Israel's "Bashful Suitor." The girl contemplated it through half-closed lids.
"You did not look like that," she said. "You were a self-possessed big boy, with smart clothes, and an air of ownership that comes of having a lot of money. You were a good-hearted boy, rather impulsive, I should think, but careless and spoiled. Had Israel chosen you it would have been the girl who was timid, not you."
He laughed easily.
"Now, how can you possibly know what I looked like as a boy?" he demanded. "Perhaps I was just such a slim, diffident little chap as that one. Time works miracles, you know."
"But even time has its limitations. I know perfectly well how you looked at that boy's age. Sometimes I see boys pass along in front of the house, and I say: 'There, he was just like that!'"
Frank felt his heart grow warm. It seemed to him that her confession showed a depth of interest not acknowledged before.
"I'll try to make amends, Constance," he said, "by being a little nearer what you would like to have me now," and could not help adding, "only you'll have to decide just what particular thing you want me to be, and please don't have the North Pole in it."
Out in the blowy wet weather again, by avenues and by-ways, they raced through the Park, climbing up to look over at the wind-driven water of the old reservoir, clambering down a great wet bowlder on the other side – the girl as agile and sure of foot as a boy. Then they pushed toward Eighth Avenue, missed the entrance and wandered about in a labyrinth of bridle-paths and footways, suddenly found themselves back at the big bowlder again, scrambled up it warm and flushed with the exertion, and dropped down for a moment to breathe and to get their bearings.
"I always did get lost in this place," he said. "I have never been able to cross the Park and be sure just where I was coming out." Then they laughed together happily, glad to be lost – glad it was raining and blowing – glad, as children are always glad, to be alive and together.
They were more successful, this time, and presently took an Eighth Avenue car, going down – not because they especially wanted to go down, but because at that time in the afternoon the down cars were emptier. They had no plans as to where they were going, it being their habit on such excursions to go without plans and to come when the spirit moved.
They transferred at the Columbus statue, and she stood looking up at it as they waited for a car.
"That is my kind of a discoverer," she said; "one who sails out to find a new world."
"Yes," he agreed, "and the very next time there is a new world to be discovered I am going to do it."
The lights were already coming out along Broadway, this gloomy wet evening, and the homing throng on the pavements were sheltered by a gleaming, tossing tide of umbrellas. Frank and Constance got out at Madison Square, at the Worth monument, and looked down toward the "Flat-iron" – a pillar of light, looming into the mist.
"Everywhere are achievements," said the girl. "That may not be a thing of beauty, but it is a great piece of engineering. They have nothing like those buildings abroad – at least I have not seen them. Oh, this is a wonderful country, and it is those splendid engineers who have helped to make it so. I know of one young man who is going to be an engineer. He was just a poor boy – so poor – and has worked his way. He would never take help from anybody. I shall see him this summer, when we go to the mountains. He is to be not far away. Oh, you don't know how proud I shall be of him, and how I want to see him and tell him so. Wouldn't you be proud of a boy like that, a – a son or – a brother, for instance?"
She looked up at him expectantly – a dash of rain glistening on her cheek and in the little tangle of hair about her temples. She seemed a bit disappointed that he was not more responsive.
"Wouldn't you honor him?" she demanded, "and love him, too – a boy who had made his way alone?"
"Oh, why, y-yes, of course – only, you know, I hope he won't spend his life building these things" – indicating with his head the great building which they were now passing, the gusts of wind tossing them and making it impossible to keep the umbrella open.
"Oh, but he's to build railroads and great bridges – not houses at all."
"Um – well, that's better. By the way, I believe you go to the Adirondacks this summer."
"Yes, Father has a cottage – he calls it a camp – there. That is, he had. He says he supposes it's a wreck by this time. He hasn't seen it, you know, for years."
"I suppose there is no law against my going to the Adirondacks, too, is there?" he asked, rather meekly. "You know, I should like to see that young man of yours. Maybe I might get some idea of what I ought to be like to make you proud of me. I haven't been there since I was a boy, but I remember I liked it then. No doubt I'd like it this year if – if that young man is there. I suppose I could find a place to stay not more than twenty miles or so from your camp, so you could send word, you know, any time you were getting proud of me."
She laughed – he thought a little nervously.
"Why, yes," she admitted, "there's a sort of hotel or lodge or something, not far away. I know that from Father. He said we might have to stay there awhile until our camp is ready. Oh, but this talk of the mountains makes me want to be there. I wish I were starting to-night!"
It seemed a curious place to discuss a summer's vacation – under a big wind-tossed umbrella, along Broadway on a March evening. Perhaps the incongruity of it became more manifest with the girl's last remark, for her companion chuckled.
"Pretty disagreeable up there to-night," he objected; "besides, I thought you liked all this a few minutes ago."
"Yes, oh, yes; I do, of course! It's all so big and bright and wonderful, though after all there is nothing like the woods, and the wind and rain in the hills."
What a strange creature she was, he thought. The world was so big and new to her, she was confused and disturbed by the wonder of it and its possibilities. She longed to have a part in it all. She would settle down presently and see things as they were – not as she thought they were. He was not altogether happy over the thought of the young man who had made his way and was to be a civil engineer. He had not heard of this friend before. Doubtless it was some one she had
