He told her of his work, of his career. Of the _Torch_, of his subsequent renting of a studio, and free-lance life. Yes, he was making money. He was independent; he had his own hours; work came to him so readily that he was in a position to refuse such as pleased him least. But, he sighed, it was all in black-and-white, so far. Paint loomed up, as before, merely as a golden dream. In illustrating and decorating, using black-and-white mediums, that _was_ where the money lay, and he supposed he would have to stick to that for a time. But he was saving money for a trip abroad.
They talked on and on until nearly midnight. He asked after some of his old acquaintances; he listened patiently to his mother's gentle gossip and tried to feel interested.
"The Wares are back," explained Mrs. Lancaster.
"Ah," Dick looked up quickly. "Does Dorothy look well?"
"I don't think so, though I'm bound I hadn't the courage to tell her so to her face. She looks just like you do, Dick,--kinder fagged out."
"Yes. They say traveling is hard work. And her mother?"
"Oh, she's about the same as usual. Looks stouter, maybe."
"I must get over and call there, before I get back to town," he said, reflectively. "Well, mother, I suppose I'm keeping you up beyond your regular time. I'm a trifle tired, too. So goodnight."
He kissed her and passed up stairs to his old room. There were the same pictures that he had decorated the walls with a few years ago. He smiled; they were, fortunately, very crude compared to the work he was doing now. When all was dark, he lay awake for a long time, drinking in the deep silence of the place. He could hear the chirrup of the crickets over in the meadows, and from far over the western hills came the deep boom of a locomotive's whistle. The incessant roar of the town, in which even the shrillest of individual noises are swallowed into one huge conglomerate, was utterly gone. He could hear the wind slightly swaying the branches; the deep blue of the star-spotted sky was full of a caressing silence. The peace of it all soothed him, and ushered him into deep, refreshing sleep.
The sun touched him early in the morning, and seeing the beauty of the dawning day, he dressed quickly and went quietly down stairs and out, for a stroll about the dear old village. He passed the familiar houses, smiling to himself. He thought of all the quaint and queer characters in a little place of this sort. Presently he left the region of houses and passed into the woods that were beginning to blush at the approach of their snow-clad bridegroom. The picture of the sun rising over the fringe of trees, gilding the browned leaves with a burnish that blazed and sparkled, filled him with artistic delight. He said to himself that after he had been abroad, and after his hand was grown cunning in colors, he would ask for no better subject than these October woods of the West. He sat down on the log of a tree and watched the golden, crescent lamp of day. He had forgotten the town utterly, for the moment, and for the moment he was happy.