One day Alicia found a letter written to Robert by his mother.  It was an unerudite letter, full of crops and motherly love and farm notes.  It chronicled the health of the pig and the recent red calf, and asked concerning Robert’s in return.  It was a letter direct from the soil, straight from home, full of biographies of bees, tales of turnips, paeans of new-laid eggs, neglected parents and the slump in dried apples.

“Why have I not been shown your mother’s letters?” asked Alicia.  There was always something in her voice that made you think of lorgnettes, of accounts at Tiffany’s, of sledges smoothly gliding on the trail from Dawson to Forty Mile, of the tinkling of pendant prisms on your grandmothers’ chandeliers, of snow lying on a convent roof; of a police sergeant refusing bail.  “Your mother,” continued Alicia, “invites us to make a visit to the farm.  I have never seen a farm.  We will go there for a week or two, Robert.”

“We will,” said Robert, with the grand air of an associate Supreme Justice concurring in an opinion.  “I did not lay the invitation before you because I thought you would not care to go.  I am much pleased at your decision.”

“I will write to her myself,” answered Alicia, with a faint foreshadowing of enthusiasm.  “Felice shall pack my trunks at once.  Seven, I think, will be enough.  I do not suppose that your mother entertains a great deal.  Does she give many house parties?”

Robert arose, and as attorney for rural places filed a demurrer against six of the seven trunks.  He endeavored to define, picture, elucidate, set forth and describe a farm.  His own words sounded strange in his ears.  He had not realized how thoroughly urbsidized he had become.

A week passed and found them landed at the little country station five hours out from the city.  A grinning, stentorian, sarcastic youth driving a mule to a spring wagon hailed Robert savagely.

“Hallo, Mr. Walmsley.  Found your way back at last, have you?  Sorry I couldn’t bring in the automobile for you, but dad’s bull-tonguing the ten-acre clover patch with it to-day.  Guess you’ll excuse my not wearing a dress suit over to meet you—­it ain’t six o’clock yet, you know.”

“I’m glad to see you, Tom,” said Robert, grasping his brother’s hand.  “Yes, I’ve found my way at last.  You’ve a right to say ‘at last.’  It’s been over two years since the last time.  But it will be oftener after this, my boy.”

Alicia, cool in the summer heat as an Arctic wraith, white as a Norse snow maiden in her flimsy muslin and fluttering lace parasol, came round the corner of the station; and Tom was stripped of his assurance.  He became chiefly eyesight clothed in blue jeans, and on the homeward drive to the mule alone did he confide in language the inwardness of his thoughts.

They drove homeward.  The low sun dropped a spendthrift flood of gold upon the fortunate fields of wheat.  The cities were far away.  The road lay curling around wood and dale and hill like a ribbon lost from the robe of careless summer.  The wind followed like a whinnying colt in the track of Phoebus’s steeds.