“Do tell us about it,” she demanded.
“Well, in the first place Daleford itself is a forgotten little village, where nothing was ever known to happen. Of course births, marriages, and deaths have occurred there, but even those things have always been more uneventful than anywhere else. Nothing can take place without the whole village knowing it, and knowing it at once: yet the inhabitants are always asleep. No one is ever in sight. If you should lock yourself in your own room, pull down the curtains and sneeze, say your prayers or change a garment at an unaccustomed hour, all Daleford would be commenting on it before you could unlock the door and get downstairs again.”
“That sounds inviting,” said Mr. Cabot. “There is nothing like privacy.”
“I only tell you this so there shall be no deception. But all that does not really concern you, as our house is a mile from the village.” Then he went on to describe its real advantages: the pure air, the hills, the beautiful scenery, the restful country life, and when he had finished his hearers were much interested and thought seriously of going to see it.
“I notice, Sam, that you make no mention of the malaria, rheumatism, or organized bands of mosquitoes, drunk with your own blood, who haul you from your bed at dead of night. Or do you take it for granted we should be disappointed without those things?”
“No, sir. I take it for granted that every New Yorker brings those things with him,” and again a large china-blue eye was obscured by a laborious wink as its mate beamed triumphantly upon the daughter.
There were further questions regarding the house, the means of getting there, and finally Molly asked if there were any neighbors.
“Only one. The others are half a mile away.”
“And who is that one?” she asked.
“That one is Judd, and he is an ideal neighbor.”