“Heaven must have a special company of angels whose sole duty is to take care of fools.”
They weren’t making much progress with the plan. He had watched her draft house plans and remodel them for her classes, shifting rooms here and there with the ease and interest of a child playing with blocks. For some reason she seemed afraid of this one.
“We won’t want it very big,” she said.
“Because you’re fearful of the mortgage? But a farm house has to be built for permanence, you know. It generally stands for years and years. You don’t move out every first of May. That’s why it should be so much better planned than a town house—you have to look farther ahead.”
Then he took from his pocket a yellow, much-folded sketch copied from one of her blackboard drafts for the classes years ago—just after he had first become interested in houses.
“How would this do?” he asked.
She recognized it, happily.
“You liked that? I’m so glad. I believe I was drawing that house for you even then.”
“You knew—then?”
“No, no. I didn’t think of it ever being my house. I think I couldn’t have drawn it if I had. But I knew what a house would mean to you, and I was building it for you. It was the very best I could do. Why, I never could have thought of a