bridge. Here the stream lay in shadow. He rested his eyes on the cool shallow of it for a moment of silence, and then asked: "Are you writing anything now, Eden?"
"A good many things in the last month."
"I should like to see them."
"I'll bring them here some afternoon, and read them to you. I'll bring the first things I wrote after I came home. I don't believe they're of much value, but I'd like you to hear them because the theme of nearly all is the sweetness of life. I've never questioned that. No matter how despondent I may have seemed when you found me in New York, I had never once thought of taking my life. Good God, I'd sooner have spent the rest of my days and nights on that park bench where I could look up at the clouds and the stars than to have done away with myself." He crossed to Finch's side and put his arm about his shoulders. "You've read Lavengro, of course?"
"Part of it. I didn't care much for it."
"Well, Borrow said one thing—it doesn't matter how often it's quoted, it's always just as splendid. 'There's night and day, brother, both sweet things: sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things: there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother.'" He squeezed Finch's shoulder. "Keep that in mind, brother Finch, the next time the family concentrates on making you miserable."
"I'll try," said Finch, in a muffled voice. Eden glanced at him shrewdly, then, as though fearing he had been too solemn, said: "I was rather glad to hear that the family could stage such a thoroughgoing row without Gran. I was afraid they might degenerate into futile wrangling. She had such gusto for life. You should try to be like her. Get the most out of it."
Finch, sprawling against the railing, said: "I was watching that frog diving about under that big mound of honeysuckle—thinking what a good time he has."
"Yes. Amusing little devil. I wonder how often he's gone a-wooing this summer."
