"Old John Martin," said Andrew. "Yes, I have been here. It is a snug, pretty place, not an alms-house."
"My old lady is not in this long, plain house, but around in Fourth Street, in her own little cottage. See how quaint they are?"
A narrow passage like a green lane ran through the center. Small, one-storied cottages, with a doorway and a white-curtained window; a steep roof with a window in the end to light the garret. There was a garden with each. There were fruit trees ready to burst into bloom, so sheltered were they. There were grape arbors, where old men were smoking and old ladies knitting.
One old lady had half a dozen little children in her room, teaching a school. One was preparing dried herbs in small cardboard boxes. There were sweet flavors as of someone distilling; there was a scent of molasses candy being made, or a cake baked, even new, warm biscuit.
Everybody seemed happy and well employed.
"It is something like the Church Charities at home," said Vane, "only much more tidy and beautiful."
"It is where I shall come some day," announced Primrose with a plaintive accent, as if she were at the end of life.
"You!" Polly glanced at her with surprised eyes, hardly knowing whether to laugh or not.
"As if you would ever have need!" declared Betty Mason.
"But they are not very poor, you see. They have to be worthy people and nice people, who have been unfortunate. And when I am old I shall beg one of the little houses to live in. I think I shall make sweet flavors and raise herbs."