was a wild flutter of wings, and the big fowls flew in a swarm
about her feet, one great red-and-black rooster craning his long
neck after the basin she held beneath her arm. While she
scattered the soft dough on the ground she bent her head slightly
sideways, looking up at Jim, who stood regarding her with
enraptured eyes.

"Well, I don't know that much good ever comes of setting anything
afire," answered Tucker with his amiable chuckle; "the danger is
that you're apt to cause a good deal of trouble somewhere, and
it's more than likely you'll get singed yourself in putting out
the flame. You needn't worry about Lila, Christopher; she's the
kind of woman--and they're rare--who doesn't have to have her
happiness made to order; give her any fair amount of the raw
material and she'll soon manage to fit it perfectly to herself.
The stuff is in her, I tell you; the atmosphere is about her-
-can't you feel it--and she's going to be happy, whatever comes.
A woman who can make over a dress the sixth time as cheerfully as
she did the first has the spirit of a Caesar, and doesn't need
your lamentations. If you want to be a Jeremiah, you must go
elsewhere."

"Oh, I dare say she'll grow content, but it does seem such a
terrible waste. She's the image of that Saint-Memin portrait of
Aunt Susannah, and if she'd only been born a couple of
generations ago she would probably have been the belle of two
continents. Such women must be scarce anywhere."

"She's pretty enough, certainly, and I think Jim knows it.
There's but one thing I've ever seen that could compare with her