The car obediently let us out, then steamed softly away, up the road and out of sight.
Mr. Tait held out his hand to me and helped me down the steep little river bank. I dabbled the toe of my shoe in the water, and as he finally drew me away, with the suggestion of further delights, I caught sight of a tiny fish, lying whitely upward in a tangle of weeds.
"How could he die?" I asked mournfully, as we walked away and climbed back to the level of the park. "It seems so unappreciative."
The man beside me laughed.
"Things—even the most beautiful things on earth—don't keep people—or fish alive," he said. "They can't even make people want to stay alive—if this is all they have, and after all, the river is just a thing—and the park is a thing—and the house is a thing!"
We had walked on rapidly, and at that moment the house itself became apparent. I clutched his arm.
"A thing!" I denied, looking at it in a dazed fashion. "Why, it's the House of a Hundred Dreams! It's all the dreams of April mornings—and Christmas nights—and——"
"And what?" he asked gravely. But my eyes were still intoxicated.
"Why, it's Religion—and Art—and Love—and Comfort!"
He looked at it wonderingly, as if he expected to see statues representing these chapters in the book of Life.