It happened that the next time I came out the weather had become
spring-like.
The posts were down. The tangle that had grown over them was trailing
on the ground--but it had begun to put out leaves. I looked at it--and
for the first time it occurred to me to say, "What is that?"
The mason looked at me a moment, and replied, "That, madame! That is a
'creamson ramblaire'--the oldest one in the commune."
Poor fellow, it had never occurred to him that I did not know.
Seven feet to the north of the climbing rose bush was a wide hedge of
tall lilac bushes. So I threw up an arbor between them, and the crimson
rambler now mounts eight feet in the air. It is a glory of color
to-day, and my pride. But didn't I come near to losing it?
The long evenings are wonderful. I sit out until nine, and can read
until almost the last minute. I never light a lamp until I go up to
bed. That is my day. It seems busy enough to me. I am afraid it
will--to you, still so willing to fight, still so absorbed in the
struggle, and still so over-fond of your species--seem futile. Who
knows which of us is right ?--or if our difference of opinion may not be
a difference in our years? If all who love one another were of the same
opinion, living would be monotonous, and conversation flabby. So cheer
up. You are content. Allow me to be.