They were standing in the old orchard, on the bench where they had counted twenty-seven trees, neglected but of generous girth.
“And on top the bench, back of the house, we can grow berries.” Saxon paused, considering a new thought. “If only Mrs. Mortimer would come up and advise us!—Do you think she would, Billy?”
“Sure she would. It ain't more 'n four hours' run from San Jose. But first we'll get our hooks into the place. Then you can write to her.”
Sonoma Creek gave the long boundary to the little farm, two sides were worm fenced, and the fourth side was Wild Water.
“Why, we'll have that beautiful man and woman for neighbors,” Saxon recollected. “Wild Water will be the dividing line between their place and ours.”
“It ain't ours yet,” Billy commented. “Let's go and call on 'em. They'll be able to tell us all about it.”
“It's just as good as,” she replied. “The big thing has been the finding. And whoever owns it doesn't care much for it. It hasn't been lived in for a long time. And—Oh, Billy—are you satisfied!”
“With every bit of it,” he answered frankly, “as far as it goes. But the trouble is, it don't go far enough.”
The disappointment in her face spurred him to renunciation of his particular dream.
“We'll buy it—that's settled,” he said. “But outside the meadow, they's so much woods that they's little pasture—not more 'n enough for a couple of horses an' a cow. But I don't care. We can't have everything, an' what they is is almighty good.”