“Yes, mother,” each boy answered; and Mrs. Ives looked up at the quiet stars and told herself that here in this strange place even as at home a loved and loving spirit watched over her and her two sons.
CHAPTER XII
THE NEW NEIGHBOR
Within a week Mrs. Ives and her family were established in a house in one of the little, shaded, unexpected streets that in those days contributed to the charm of Cambridge. It was a large square house set well back in half an acre of ground; to one side of it lay a garden with rustic seats and rose trellises and flower beds bright at that season with asters and marigolds. There were elms and larches in front of the house, and enormous robins hopped about on the smooth lawn on sunny mornings and sunny afternoons.
With the interior of the house Mrs. Ives was as pleased as with its surroundings—with its spacious rooms and the tiled fireplaces and the latticed casement windows that looked out upon the garden; the house had been the property of an aged professor of Greek who had died a few months before, and it seemed to her that the austere dignity of the late owner continued to invest its walls. She felt that it was by its associations an appropriate abode for Mr. Dean, and that its classical atmosphere must in some subtle way communicate itself to his senses. At any rate she saw to it that he had the largest and most comfortable room in the house, the room into which the morning sun poured its liveliest beams. David led him through all the rooms, showed him where his books were arranged, helped him to explore the garden and described to him in detail the wall-papers, the pictures and the articles of furniture. Mr. Dean gratified Mrs. Ives by telling her that his only fear was lest she had sacrificed her own comfort to insure his; he gratified Maggie by his appreciation of her cooking; he gratified Mary, the waitress, by his pleasant recognition of her small attentions and kindnesses; he soon endeared himself to the entire household.
Mrs. Ives was not long in finding out that Mr. Herbert Vance, a professor of Latin at Harvard, was the owner of the adjoining estate; a gate in the garden hedge testified to the friendly intercourse that had existed between him and his deceased colleague. One afternoon, while the family were seated on the piazza overlooking the garden and David was reading aloud to his mother and Mr. Dean, the gate in the hedge opened and a young girl advanced, shy and smiling. She was bareheaded; the sun struck red-gold lights in her hair, and when she smiled her eyes and face seemed as sparkling and sunny as her hair.
“I’m Katharine Vance, Mrs. Ives,” she said. “Are you settled enough to be willing to receive callers?”
Mrs. Ives assured her that they were beginning to feel lonely for the lack of them.
Mr. Dean at once entered into the conversation. “When I was teaching Latin I had rather have seen your father’s library than that of any other man in America,” he said.
“I hope you’ll still be interested in it,” the girl answered. “You must come over and let father talk to you about it. He’s prouder of his collection than of his child.”