“And for the home,—­you must make that large and beautiful, Desire!  We are not shut up here to guard and rule a penitentiary; we are to bring the best and sweetest and most beautiful life possible to us, close to the life we want to help.  There is room for them and us; there is opportunity for their world and ours to touch each other and grow toward one.  We must have friends here, Daisy”; (she let him call her “Daisy”; had he not the right to give her a new name for her new life?) “friends to enjoy the delicious summers, and to make the long winters full of holiday times.  You must invent delights as well as uses:  delights that will be uses.  It must be so for your sake; I must have my Desire satisfied,—­content, in ways that perhaps she herself would not find out her need in.”

“Is not your Desire satisfied?”

“What a blessed little double name you have!  Yes, Daisy, the very Desire of my heart has come to me!”

Rodney and Sylvie walked down again to the Cascade Rock, and finished their talk together,—­this April number of it, I mean,—­about the brown house and the three-windowed, sunny room, and the grass plot where they would play croquet, and the road to the mills that was shaded all the way down, so that she could walk with her bonnet off to meet him when he was coming up to tea.  About the ivies that the “good Miss Goodwyns” had kept safe and thriving at Dorbury, and the furniture that Sylvie had stored in a loft in the Bank Block.  How pretty the white frilled curtains would be in the porch room!

“And the interest of the five thousand dollars will be all I shall ever want to spend for anything!”

“We shall be quite rich people, Sylvie.  We must take care not to grow proud and snobbish.”

“We had much better walk than ride, Rodney.  I think that is the riddle that all our spills have been meant to read us.”