truths. Science now looks with new respect on folk-lore—"
"Mr. Kennaston," says Moira, laughing, "I warn you, if you start Dick on his hobbies, he will talk us all to death. So, come into the house, and I will mix you two men a drink."
And we obeyed her, and—somehow—got to talking of the recent thunderstorms, and getting in our hay, and kindred topics.
Yes, it was much the usual sort of late-afternoon call customarily exchanged by country neighbors. I remember Moira's yawning as she closed the cellarette, and her wondering how Mrs. Kennaston could keep on rouging and powdering at her age, and why Kennaston never had anything in particular to say for himself?
"Do you suppose it is because he has a swelled head over his little old book, or is he just naturally stupid?" she wanted to know.
