THE SONG OF THE LARK
"Well, that would be better than going to bed."
"I 'll have to lend you some more books."
Thea shook herself impatiently. "I can't read every night."
Dr. Archie gave one of his low, sympathetic chuckles as he opened the gate for her. "You 're beginning to grow up, that 's what 's the matter with you. I 'll have to keep an eye on you. Now you 'll have to say good-night to the moon."
"No, I won't. I sleep on the floor now, right in the moonlight. My window comes down to the floor, and I can look at the sky all night."
She shot round the house to the kitchen door, and Dr. Archie watched her disappear with a sigh. He thought of the hard, mean, frizzy little woman who kept his house for him; once the belle of a Michigan town, now dry and withered up at thirty. "If I had a daughter like Thea to watch," he reflected, "I would n't mind anything. I wonder if all of my life 's going to be a mistake just because I made a big one then? Hardly seems fair."
Howard Archie was "respected" rather than popular in Moonstone. Everyone recognized that he was a good physician, and a progressive Western town likes to be able to point to a handsome, well-set-up, well-dressed man among its citizens. But a great many people thought Archie "distant," and they were right. He had the uneasy manner of a man who is not among his own kind, and who has not seen enough of the world to feel that all people are in some sense his own kind. He knew that every one was curious about his wife, that she played a sort of character part in Moonstone, and that people made fun of her, not very delicately. Her own friends—most of them women who were distasteful to Archie—liked to ask her to contribute to church charities, just to see how mean she could be. The little, lop-sided cake at the church supper, the cheapest pincushion, the skimpiest apron at the bazaar, were always Mrs. Archie's contribution.
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