The answer was evasive. "I have my little law practice, and my books. And is any one ever content, Richard?"
Going down the hill, Richard pondered. Was Eve right after all? Did a man who turned his face away from the rush of cities really lack red blood?
Stopping at the schoolhouse, he found teacher and scholars still gone. But the door was unlocked and he went in. The low-ceiled room was charming, and the good taste of the teacher was evident in its decorations. There were branches of pine and cedar on the walls, a picture of Washington at one end with a flag draped over it, a pot of primroses in the south window.
There were several books on Anne's desk. Somewhat curiously he examined the titles. A shabby Browning, a modern poet or two, Chesterton, a volume of Pepys, the pile topped by a small black Bible. Moved by a sudden impulse, he opened the Bible. The leaves fell back at a marked passage:
"Let not your heart be troubled."
He shut the book sharply. It was as if he had peered into the girl's soul. The red was in his cheeks as he turned away.
That night Nancy Brooks went with Richard to his room. On the threshold she stopped.
"I have given this room to you," she said, "because it was mine when I was a girl, and all my dreams have been shut in—waiting for you."
"Mother," he caught her hands in his, "you mustn't dream too much for me."