house about here." Linda indicated where. "So
long as you're buying a place like this you don't want to miss one
single thing; and you do want to make the very most possible out of
every beauty you have. And you mustn't fail to open up and widen the
runway from that energetic, enthusiastic spring. Carry it across your
road, sure. It will cost you another little something for a safe bridge,
but there's nothing so artistic as a bridge with a cold stream running
under it. And think what a joyful time I'll have, gathering specimens
for you of every pretty water plant that grows in my particular canyon.
Any time when you're busy in your library and you hear my car puffing up
the incline and around the corner and rattling across the bridge, you'll
know that I am down here giving you a start of watercress and miners'
lettuce and every lovely thing you could mention that likes to be
nibbled or loved-up, while it dabbles its toes in the water."

Peter Morrison looked at Linda reflectively. He looked for such a long
moment that Henry Anderson reached a nebulous conclusion. "Fine!" he
cried. "Every one of those suggestions is valuable to an inexperienced
man. Morrison, shan't I make a note of them?"

"Yes, Henry, you shall," said Peter. "I am going to push this thing as
fast as possible, so far as building the garage is concerned and getting
settled in it. After that I don't care if I live on this spot until we
know each other by the inch, before I begin building my home. At the
present minute it appeals to me that 'home' is about the best word in
the language of any nation. I have a feeling that what I build here is
going to be my home, very possibly the only one I shall ever have. We
must find the spot on which the Lord intended that a house should grow
on this hillside, and then we must build that house so that it has
a room suitable for a workshop in which I may strive, under the best
conditions possible, to get my share of the joy of life and to earn the
money that I shall require to support me and entertain my friends; and
that sounds about as selfish as anything possibly could. It seems to
be mostly 'me' and 'mine,' and it's not the real truth concerning this
house. I don't believe there is a healthy, normal man living who has not
his dream. I have no hesitation whatever in admitting that I have mine.
This house must be two things. It has got to be a concrete workshop for
me, and it has got to be an abstract abiding place