I confess I was getting a little impatient for an account of the love-making, and this did not sound much like it. But after musing a bit, Mildred continued:
“This little experience which my companion and I had in common made us quickly acquainted. He frankly told me of his college life and of himself. He had been studying for the ministry, he said, though whether he was to be a clergyman or not I inferred was somewhat doubtful.
“We passed Walden Pond, gleaming like silver in the sunshine, and he talked of Thoreau, whom he seemed to know well, though I had at that time read nothing of him. Presently we rolled up to the Concord station, and while a crowd of people alighted and took the ‘barge,’ we went down one of the long, shady streets, bordered by tall hedges and close-clipped lawns, with comfortable, roomy mansions set back from the street; past the little gem of a town library, on its carpet of emerald green; past the cluster of shops and the cool-plashing fountain, and down the famous old road which saw the redcoats’ flight, and which Hosea Biglow, you remember, says he ‘most gin’ally calls “John Bull’s Run.”’
“Such a lovely, quiet old street! Dear, you must see it some day—with the broad, green meadow lands on one side, and the hill crowned with trees and vines on the other.
“‘Along this ridge lived Hawthorne’s Septimius Felton,’ said my companion.
“‘And here,’ said I, as we passed a tiny antique house on the hillside with curtains drawn, and no path through the grass that surrounded it,—‘here, I am positive, an old witch with a black cat must have lived a hundred years ago.’
“We jested and laughed as we went merrily on. We were young and happy that brilliant summer morning. I remember how every leaf sparkled with the heavy dewdrops, and the air seemed to fairly intoxicate one like a draught of wine. I was fairly brimming over with delight.
“We passed the old-fashioned white house with green blinds, peeping out from behind the pines, which I needed no one to tell me had been the home of the Concord seer; and a little further on appeared the brown-gabled house, nestled in a green hollow, and guarded by giant elms, where the Little Women lived their charming life. Just within these grounds stood the vine-covered Hillside Chapel, whither our steps were tending. We had passed little groups on our way, and now and then we caught a word of what they were saying; ‘first entelechy,’ ‘pure subjectivity,’ the ‘ding an sich,’ and so on, which in my hilarious mood served as a further theme for jest.
“As we took our seats beneath the bust of Pestalozzi and beside the comfortable arm-chair always reserved for Mrs. Emerson, I scanned the audience closely. It was not a stylish one, and I felt a little inclined to poke fun at some of the antiquated bonnets; but my attention was attracted by the evident eagerness with which my new friend was studying the face of the speaker.
“He was a middle-aged man, with close-clipped gray beard and spectacles, and a face that seemed to be the very personification of thought. The subject of the lecture was Immortality. I listened, vainly trying to understand, and feeling as though the essence of a thousand books was being crowded into that quiet morning’s talk. I had heard that this man was a German rationalist, and was undermining the foundations of Christianity; therefore I had prepared myself to see a cynic or a scoffer. I had thought that I would go, for once, to hear what he had to say; just to have an idea as to what it was all about. I felt all the excitement of doing something a little venturesome.