Yet he was secretly impressed; he paused by jungle and sandy swale or ribbed and gullied slope for admiration of orchards unplanted and friendly homesteads yet to be; he drew rein by a pear thicket and peered half enviously into its thorny impenetrable keeps.
“Who lives there, Edith? That’s the best place we’ve seen. Big fine house and all, but it looks comfortable and homey, just the same—mighty pleasant and friendly. And them old-fashioned flower beds are right quaint.”
“Hollyhocks,” she breathed; “and marigolds, and four o’clocks. An old-fashioned woman lives here.”
Charlie’s voice grew wistful. “I might have had a place like this just as well as not—if I’d only had sense enough to hear and hark. Hobby Lull brought me out here and put me wise, years ago, but I wouldn’t listen. There was a bunch of us. Hobby and—and—now who else was it? It was a merry crowd, I can remember that. Hobby did all the talking—but who were the others? And have they forgotten too? It was a long time ago, before the big ditch. Oh, dear! I do wish I could remember who was with me!”
His voice trailed off to silence and a sigh that was only half assumed.
“You make it seem very real,” she said, unconscious of her answering deeper sigh.
“Real. It is real! Look there—and there—and there!”
“That is all Hobby’s work,” said Edith as her eyes followed his pointing finger, and saw there what he saw—the city of his vision, the courts and palaces of love. “He has the builder’s mind.”
“Yes. It is a great gift.” It was said ungrudgingly. “I wish I had it. That way lies happiness. Me—I am a spectator.”