Why,
I know about your garden because I have stood a thousand, thousand times
leaning on my hoe in my own garden, discussing those peonies with old
Mrs. Belham who lived there before you." This seemed to bring up some
picture into her mind at which she looked for a moment, turning from it
to the man beside her, with a warmth in her voice which went to his
heart. "It's been forlorn having that dear little old house empty and
cold. I can't _tell_ you how glad I am you have come to warm it, and
live in it."

The wonder of it overcame Mr. Welles like a wave. "I can't believe I'm
really going to!" he cried desperately. "It doesn't seem _possible_!" He
felt shamed, knowing that he had burst out too violently. What could she
know of what lay back of him, that he was escaped from! What could she
think of him, but that he was a foolish, bitter old man?

She did not seem to think that, looking at him attentively as though she
wanted to make out just what he meant. Perhaps she did make out, for she
now said gently, "I believe you are going to like it, Mr. Welles. I
believe you are going to find here what, . . . what you deserve to find."
She said quietly, "I hope we shall be good neighbors to you."

She spoke so kindly, her look on him was so humane that he felt the
water coming to his eyes. He was in a foolishly emotional state, these
first days. The least little thing threw him off the track. It really
_did_ seem hardly possible that it was all true. That the long grind at
the office was over, the business he had always hated and detested, and
the long, hateful slavery at the flat finished at last, and that he had
come to live out what was left to him in this lovely, peaceful valley,
in that quiet welcoming little house, with this sweet woman next door!
He swallowed. The corners of his mouth twitched. What an old lunatic he
was. But he did not dare trust himself to speak again.

Now Vincent's voice rose. What a length of time Vincent had been
silent,--he who never took a back seat for anybody! What had he been
doing all this time, sitting there and staring at them with those
awfully brilliant eyes of his? Very likely he had seen the silly weak
tears so near the surface, had caught the sentimental twitch of the
mouth. Yes, quite certainly, for, now he was showing his tact by
changing the subject, changing it with a vengeance. "Mrs. Crittenden,"
he was saying, "my curiosity has been touched by that very fine
photograph over th