The journey beneath the maples proved such a pleasant one and was so easily made as to invite a certain familiarity of intercourse that the Cabots saw no good reason to discourage. Mrs. Judd, a strong-framed woman with a heavy chin, whose failing memory seemed her only weakness, was now about eighty years of age, and generally sat by a sunny window in the big dining-room, where she rocked and knitted from morning till night, paying little attention to what went on about her. If Amos had been her own son she could not have loved him more, and this affection was returned in full with an unceasing thoughtfulness and care. Both Molly and her father were gratified at finding in this young man a neighbor whose society it seemed safe to encourage. He proved a sensible, unpretending person, fond of fun and pleasure, but with plenty of convictions; these convictions, however, while a source of amusement to Mr. Cabot, were not always accepted by the daughter. They were often startling departures from his education and environment, and showed little respect for conventionalities. He never attended church, but owned a pew in each of the five temples at Daleford, and to each of these societies he was a constant and liberal contributor. For three of them he had given parsonages that were ornaments to the village, and as the sectarian spirit in that locality was alive and hot these generous gifts had produced alternating outbursts of thankfulness and rage, all of which apparently caused neither surprise nor annoyance to the young philosopher. When Molly Cabot told him, after learning this, that it would indicate a more serious Christian spirit if he paid for but a single pew and sat in it, he answered:
“But that spirit is just the evil I try to escape, for your good Christian is a hot sectarian. It is the one thing in his religion he will fight and die for, and it seems to me the one thing he ought to be ashamed of. If any one sect is right and the others wrong it is all a hideous joke on the majority, and a proper respect for the Creator prevents my believing in any such favoritism.”
Occasionally the memory of his offensive title obtruded itself as a bar to that confidence which is the foundation of friendship, but as she knew him better it became more difficult to believe that he could ever have been, in its coarser sense, what that title signified. As regarded herself, there was never on his part the faintest suggestion of anything that could be interpreted as love-making, or even as the mildest attempt at a flirtation. She found him under all conditions simple and unassuming, and, she was forced to admit, with no visible tokens of that personal vanity with which she had so lavishly endowed him. His serious business in life was the management of the Judd farm, and although the care and development of his animals was more of a recreation than a rigid necessity he wasted little money in unsuccessful experiments. Mr. Cabot soon discovered that he was far more practical and business-like than his leisurely manners seemed to indicate. The fondness for animals that seemed one of his strongest characteristics was more an innate affection than a breeder’s fancy. Every animal on his place, from the thoroughbred horses to the last litter of pups, he regarded more as personal friends than as objects of commercial value.
When Mr. Cabot and Molly made their first visit to the farm, they noticed in the corner of a field a number of dejected horses huddled solemnly together. Most of them were well beyond middle age and bore the clearest indications of a future that was devoid of promise. They gazed at the visitors with listless eyes, and as a congregation seemed burdened with most of the physical imperfections of extreme antiquity.
“What on earth are those?” asked Mr. Cabot. “Revolutionary relics? They are too fat for invalids.”
“A few friends of my youth.”
“I should think from the number you have here that you never disposed of your old friends,” said Mr. Cabot.
“Only when life is a burden.”
“Well, I am glad to see them,” said Molly, as she patted one or two of the noses that were thrust toward her. “It does you credit. I think it is horrid to sell a horse that has used himself up in your service.”
As the father and daughter walked homeward along the avenue of maples, Mr. Cabot spoke of the pleasure the young man derived from his animals, and the good sense he displayed in the management of his farm.