"Oh, come now, Jess," said Bob good-naturedly, "don't be too rough on me. Help yourself, by all means. There's no danger of your overdoing it. But I thought there was with me; and that's why I quit. Have yours, and then let's get out the banjo and try over that new quickstep."

    "I've heard," said Jessie in the tones of the oracle, "that drinking alone is a pernicious habit. No, I don't think I feel like playing this evening. If we are going to reform we may as well abandon the evil habit of banjo-playing, too."

    She took up a book and sat in her little willow rocker on the other side of the table. Neither of them spoke for half an hour.

    And then Bob laid down his paper and got up with a strange, absent look on his face and went behind her chair and reached over her shoulders, taking her hands in his, and laid his face close to hers.

    In a moment to Jessie the walls of the seine-hung room vanished, and she saw the Sullivan County hills and rills. Bob felt her hands quiver in his as he began the verse from old Omar:

    "Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring

    The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:

    The Bird of Time has but a little way

    To fly - and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing!"

    And then he walked to the table and poured a stiff drink of Scotch into a glass.

    But in that moment a mountain breeze had somehow found its way in and blown away the mist of the false Bohemia.

    Jessie leaped and with one fierce sweep of her hand sent the bottle and glasses crashing to the floor. The same motion of her arm carried it around Bob's neck, where it met its mate and fastened tight.

    "Oh, my God, Bobbie - not that verse - I see now.