Behind the house was a neat, neat garden, with vegetables and berry bushes and gorgeous flowers of every kind. There were little trees whitewashed up to the branches, and whitewashed stones marked the corners of the paths. Frieda stood looking about with pleasure, when she saw coming down 235 the path a little old lady with a black knitted shawl over her head, and a little old man in carpet slippers, with a big pipe in his mouth. They met her shyly and she put her errand in her embarrassed English. The old lady shook her head and looked hopefully at the old man. He shook his and grunted. Frieda tried once more. She frequently had difficulty in making herself understood. This time she used gestures, and made such an earnest effort to be clear that the old people began to look worried. The old lady shook her head again and then, turning to her husband, asked him something in German. Then there was excitement! Frieda plunged into German with them, and the others, delighted to find she knew their language, talked fast and faster.
When she told them she was newly come from their beloved country, their eyes filled with tears and they asked question after question. Leading her to an arbor under the whitewashed trees, they made her sit down. The little old lady hurried into the house and brought out Kuchen and beer. Frieda was blissful. They spoke good German, and had visited Berlin. They were full of respect when they learned that Frieda’s father was a Herr Professor, for they themselves had been simple tradespeople. In answer to her questions, they told her how their children had come to America, had prospered, and had sent for the old parents. With sad voices 236 they explained their entire inability to adjust themselves to the new country and the new ways. The language they had not even attempted to acquire. At last, their sons had built this little cottage for them, and, with a grandchild, who spoke both languages, to act as interpreter, they lived peacefully and quietly on.
“But we miss the old country sometimes,” said the grandfather. “Our neighbors and the pleasant evenings and the bands.”
“Don’t you know the other Germans here?” asked Frieda. “Dr. Harlow tells me there are many.”
“They are not from our part of Germany,” said the little grandmother gently. “And they are Methodists, while we are Lutherans.”
“But our sons come often to see us, and we have the garden and each other,” said the grandfather cheerfully. “And sometimes we get hold of a German book or paper.”
“O!” cried Frieda delightedly. “There will be many German books for you soon,” and she told them eagerly about the library and the list of books Algernon had already ordered at her suggestion. They listened with intelligent interest, and exchanged looks of pleasure at the thought of such a storehouse to draw on in the long winter evenings, “when the garden takes its nap,” as the little Frau said lovingly.
237The sun was perceptibly lower when Frieda rose to go. Then she remembered Dr. Helen’s errand. The faces of her host and hostess shone at the name. “Heavenly kind! Yes! She had done much for them. They would send her flowers gladly, but sell them to her? Never!”
With big shears they cut great stalks of everything the garden contained, and, piling Frieda’s arms with blossoms, while she uttered protests and exclamations of delight, they escorted her to the gate. There, in spite of her boasted emancipation from childhood, she dropped a courtesy and left them, crying “Ade!” as long as they could see her.
At the supper table at Three Gables, Dr. Helen, with Bert on one side, and Archie on the other, called on each girl in turn for her story of the afternoon.