require a family to take care of, unless she's a genius—an artist or a poet, or something like that, which I'm not. Why, Will," I broke out, "I'm getting so I don't like to hear about other people's children—or see them or want them around. When Alice spoke about bringing her baby into my garden it seemed as if I'd simply have to find somewhere a little creature of our own to play with the flowers I've planted. Don't I know it's a perfect place for children? Don't I know it? And does she think we also wouldn't be prouder of a little child than of your discoveries? Oh, Will, I know how disappointed you are. You won't say it but I know it's awfully hard for you too."
"Nonsense," Will scoffed. "What's hard about it? I've got you, haven't I? You and I are the two best children at playing games in a garden that I ever saw. I'm perfectly satisfied. Come ahead, cut the cards. I'm about to beat you now at five games of crib."
I shook my head and looked away.
"You're mistaken," Will went on, "if you think I'm envying anybody anything. I've yet to meet two people happier than we. Children are pleasant enough incidents in life," Will went on, "but don't you draw any wrong conclusions that happiness is dependent on them. It isn't. Look at Dr. and Mrs. Graham. They never had any, and two more congenial, more contented, happier people never existed—except perhaps ourselves. Dr. Graham has too much sound thought to allow the denial of any one of the supposed blessings of life to disturb his peace. And so have we, Bobbie, don't you think? Some of the very best people in the world, some of those who
