“It’s the same with men as with trees, Archie. You must loosen the ground about them, root by root must be carefully taken up if you want to transplant them, and you must take so much of the old earth with them that they hardly know they are being moved. Sarah, bring the coffee. As for my own part, Archie, I am going back; but it is only just to see the old cottage, the dear old woods, and—and my mother’s grave.”
“Yes,” said Archie, thoughtfully. “Well, root by root you said, didn’t you?”
“Ay, root by root.”
“Then I’m going to begin. Rupert and Elsie will be the first roots. Roup isn’t over strong yet. This country will make a man of him. Bob and you, Harry, can go to bed as soon as you like. I’m going out to think and walk about a bit. Stick another log or two on the fire, and as soon as you have all turned in I’ll write a letter home. I’ll begin the uprooting, though it does seem cruel to snap old ties.”
“Well,” said Harry, “thank goodness, I’ve got no ties to snap. And I think with you, Archie, that the old country isn’t a patch on the new. Just think o’ the London fogs. You mind them, Sarah.”
“I does, ’Arry.”
“And the snow.”
“And the slush, ’Arry.”
“And the drizzle.”
“And the kitchen beetles, boy. It would take a fat little lot to make me go back out o’ the sunshine. Here’s the coffee.”