"I don't want to discuss Amelia," I retorted.
"I wish Nanty would come a bit oftener."
"It is a long way for her to drive. Why do you wish to cram the house with women?" I said plaintively. "I have quite enough to do with my reading, mending, sewing, and writing without being inundated by a lot of strange females."
His dear face brightened.
"So long as you don't feel lonely and the days long, that's all right." He stroked my head the wrong way.
"I'm not a bit lonely," I said. "No one could be lonely or dull who had an Amelia; and now the weather is so warm and lovely I lie for hours under the apple tree. June herself is more than a companion. I think I am going to read; I cut the magazines, take out a new novel, and then I lie with eyes half closed looking at the gifts June has lavished with prodigal hand, listening to the whisperings of leaves and grass and flowers."
"What a patient, plucky little girl," he whispered.
"Patient!" I cried, when he had gone, and the click of the gate told me another long day had to be lived through alone. "Patient!"
But how glad I am he doesn't know.
The little lazy insects seem so happy to be doing nothing. They spread their wings in the warm sun, and rub their little legs together from sheer contentment at just being alive. They regard with ill-concealed scorn the aggressive busyness of the bees in the syringa bush, who, like all working things, are kicking up a tremendous fuss about their efforts. "Laziness, doing nothing," the insects say, "breed peace and contentment." "But what about enforced laziness—lying still on a couch?" I cry.