“I—­I believe I was asleep,” he said.

“It’s the heat,” said Adkins.  “It’s something awful in the city these”—­

“Nonsense!” said the other.  “The city beats the country ten to one in summer.  Fools go out tramping in muddy brooks and wear themselves out trying to catch little fish as long as your finger.  Stay in town and keep comfortable—­that’s my idea.”

“Some letters just came,” said Adkins.  “I thought you might like to glance at them before you go.”

Let us look over his shoulder and read just a few lines of one of them: 

My dear, dear husband:  Just received your letter ordering us to stay another month . . .  Rita’s cough is almost gone . . .  Johnny has simply gone wild like a little Indian . . .  Will be the making of both children . . . work so hard, and I know that your business can hardly afford to keep us here so long . . . best man that ever . . . you always pretend that you like the city in summer . . . trout fishing that you used to be so fond of . . . and all to keep us well and happy . . . come to you if it were not doing the babies so much good . . .  I stood last evening on Chimney Rock in exactly the same spot where I was when you put the wreath of roses on my head . . . through all the world . . . when you said you would be my true knight . . . fifteen years ago, dear, just think! . . . have always been that to me . . . ever and ever,

   Mary.

The man who said he thought New York the finest summer resort in the country dropped into a cafe on his way home and had a glass of beer under an electric fan.

“Wonder what kind of a fly old Harding used,” he said to himself.

THE LAST LEAF

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called “places.”  These “places” make strange angles and curves.  One street crosses itself a time or two.  An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street.  Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents.  Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth avenue, and became a “colony.”

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio.  “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna.  One was from Maine; the other from California.  They had met at the table d’hote of an Eighth street “Delmonico’s,” and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May.  In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers.  Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown “places.”