explanations. Goodness knows, my head was full of other thoughts and
the apple sauce might have been asbestos. You know, a woman only
falls in love once in her life, and if it waits until she's darn
near forty--well, it _takes!_ You see I hadn't even been vaccinated
against it by girlish flirtations. I began to be a governess when
I was just a kid, and a governess doesn't get many chances to be
skittish. So now when it came, it hit me hard. That's when a woman
finds herself--when she's in love. I don't care if she _is_ old or
fat or homely or prosy. She feels that little flutter under her ribs
and she drops from the tree like a ripe plum. I didn't care if Roger
Mifflin and I were as odd a couple as old Dr. Johnson and his wife,
I only knew one thing: that when I saw that little red devil again I
was going to be all his--if he'd have me. That's why the old Moose
Hotel in Bath is always sacred to me. That's where I learned that
life still held something fresh for me--something better than baking
champlain biscuits for Andrew.

* * * * * * * * *

That Sunday was one of those mellow, golden days that we New
Englanders get in October. The year really begins in March, as
every farmer knows, and by the end of September or the beginning of
October the season has come to its perfect, ripened climax. There
are a few days when the world seems to hang still in a dreaming,
sweet hush, at the very fulness of the fruit before the decline
sets in. I have no words (like Andrew) to describe it, but every
autumn for years I have noticed it. I remember that sometimes at
the farm I used to lean over the wood pile for a moment just before
supper to watch those purple October sunsets. I would hear the sharp
ting of Andrew's little typewriter bell as he was working in his