“We first came out here,” said Mrs. Vedder, “nearly twenty years ago, and built the big house on the hill. But the more we came to know of country life the more we wanted to get down into it. We found it impossible up there—so many unnecessary things to see to and care for—and we couldn't—we didn't see—”
“The fact is,” Mr. Vedder put in, “we were losing touch with each other.”
“There is nothing like a big house,” said Mrs. Vedder, “to separate a man and his wife.”
“So we came down here,” said Mr. Vedder, “built this little cottage, and developed this garden mostly with our own hands. We would have sold the big house long ago if it hadn't been for our friends. They like it.”
“I have never heard a more truly romantic story,” said I.
And it WAS romantic: these fine people escaping from too many possessions, too much property, to the peace and quietude of a garden where they could be lovers again.
“It seems, sometimes,” said Mrs. Vedder, “that I never really believed in God until we came down here—”
“I saw the verse on the table in the arbour,” said I.
“And it is true,” said Mr. Vedder. “We got a long, long way from God for many years: here we seem to get back to Him.”
I had fully intended to take the road again that afternoon, but how could any one leave such people as those? We talked again late that night, but the next morning, at the leisurely Sunday breakfast, I set my hour of departure with all the firmness I could command. I left them, indeed, before ten o'clock that forenoon. I shall never forget the parting. They walked with me to the top of the hill, and there we stopped and looked back. We could see the cottage half hidden among the trees, and the little opening that the precious garden made. For a time we stood there quite silent.