The postman rapped at my door, and presently the trim little maid brought me a big square letter on a tray. I knew that hand. Nobody but Penelope writes in that scraggly style, plain, too, as a pikestaff, and easy to read. “Darling Gertrude,” she began, “I am about to plead for a visit. It seems a little bit of forever since I saw you and I want you here in my country house where we’ll have time to enjoy one another, talk of the past and present tenses to our hearts’ content, and perhaps plan a happy future.
“Let me tell you whom you’ll meet: Mr. and Mrs. Burkhardt,—you remember that sweet little girl bride who succeeded so well in blinding us—at first; dear old General Bolton, and his youngest brother, who paints almost as well as he talks; pretty Elsie Sterling and my cousin Bob. You see I put them together, but so would you if you could look out of my window and see them now. Bob has just mounted Elsie on White Baron, and now as I write the words he’s up on Caper and off they go. Well—we’ll borrow White Baron and Caper later on, you and I, and perhaps as we canter along side by side we may feel ourselves back again,—back—how many years? Never mind, we’ll not count. The years have been happy to us both, I hope.
“But you’ll come—you must not say no, remember. Cordially your friend,
“Penelope T. Gerard.”
Indeed I would not say “No.” I would arrange and rearrange my summer plans to meet Penelope once more.
It was scarce three years since I last saw her. She was then a bride of but two months and I spent three days with her just as I was leaving for Germany. During the interval our letters were more or less frequent, and so in a way we each kept track of the other and felt as close friends as we had been since our childhood.
So it was with infinite pleasure I wrote an acceptance.
“The Maples” is an unpretending rambling sort of a house, with piazzas, and “corners,” and nooks where one would least expect them. There is no rhyme or reason to the architecture, and an architect would shake his head in sad consternation. However, if he were told that three generations of Gerards had idled their summers happily away within and without its walls, and that each owner had added his share to the original pile, perhaps the exact architect would turn his critical smile to one of content and count himself fortunate to be allowed to enter this abode of happiness.
It was a sunny day when I first drove up the long maple-lined driveway and there on the lawn, close to the entrance, was Penelope making tea and laughing one of her old merry laughs as the General stood before her. I suppose he was telling her one of his funny stories. I don’t know, for of course I only saw them a moment before the carriage stopped, and once more Penelope and I were together.
The General had known us both as girls, and soon we were talking over old faces and scenes, and it seemed as though we had never been parted. The rest of the party had gone for a long drive and would not be back until seven o’clock. So we three talked on and on.