His eyes wandered about the pleasant place, resting with friendly recognition on every knotty shrub and ancient vine.
"The snowball is grown a great tree. How long is it since I have really been in this garden? Passing through in a hurry, one doesn't see things. That must be the rose-flowered hawthorn. My dear little Vesta! I can see her now with the wreath I made for her one day. She was a little pink rose then under the rosy wreath; now she is a white one, but more a rose than ever. Whom have we here?"
A wagon had drawn up by the garden gate with two sleepy white horses. A brown, white-bearded face was turned toward the doctor.
"Hello, doc'," said a cheery voice. "I want to know if that's you!"
"Nobody else, Mr. Butters! What is the good word with you? Are you coming in, or shall I—"
But Mr. Ithuriel Butters was already clambering down from his seat, and now came up the garden walk carrying a parcel in his hand. An old man of patriarchal height and build, with hair and beard to match. Dress him in flowing robes or in armor of brass and you would have had Abraham or a chief of the Maccabees, "'cordin' to," as he would have said. As it was, he was Old Man Butters of the Butterses Lane Ro'd, Shellback.
He gave Doctor Stedman a mighty grip, and surveyed him with friendly eyes.
"Wal, you've been in furrin parts sence I see ye. I expected you'd come back some kind of outlandishman, but I don't see but you look as nat'ral as nails in a door. Ben all over, hey? Seen the hull consarn?"
"Pretty near, Mr. Butters; I saw all I could hold, anyhow."
"See anything to beat the State of Maine?"