XVII 

 SEPTEMBER 



THE APOTHEOSIS OF MARTHA CORKLE 



September 28. Can it possibly be only twenty- 

 four hours since I closed my Garden Boke in haste, 

 and left it on the window seat ? Since the after- 

 noons have become cooler, close before dusk I find 

 myself lounging or writing in my watch tower, as 

 Evan calls the latticed window. Through its dia- 

 mond panes the garden landscape separates itself 

 into miniatures personal and intimate, which by the 

 opening of the casement merge again to one broad 

 picture. 



Father came home last evening a little after 

 dark, which is now before six. He had been to a 

 consultation a half-day's drive away, but instead of 

 seeming worried or tired he was laughing heartily 

 as he opened the door, which hilarity, upon seeing 

 me, he subdued to an exceedingly quizzical expres- 

 sion about the nose, such as his face wears at times 

 of special content. The last demonstration of this 

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