This fruit was McClintock's particular pride. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. One studies Nature in order not to be blindly ruled by her. My Mom is hell bent on having the biggest, most beautiful house in the neighborhood, my college education be damned.
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