The doctor took Julie in his old Ford car, along the Easter road out to the Chapins.
She sat beside him very relaxed and still, her hands lying loosely in her lap. Her eyes were rested and refreshed by the September scenery; by the tawny hills, black cloud-shadows blowing over them down into the hollows and racing up the ridges, turning their colors dark for a moment, and then giving them back to the sun; by the weathered rail-fences on either side, with red blackberry leaves, asters, and goldenrod snuggled against them; and by silver fluffs of milkweed pods that the sun had ripened and burst, and that now the wind was tossing to pieces to bear each little winged seed away on an adventure of life of its own.
The Easter road, white and dusty, led away in front of them, with the mountains towering up on either side and above, the endless sky bridging it over.
There was still that wide sense of immensity and peace upon Julie, of freedom, and of return, and the knowledge, also, that Tim had come into the same deep serenity.
“I’ve come home, I’ve come home”—the words went on saying themselves over in her mind.
Once, unconsciously, she spoke them half out-loud. “I’ve come home.”
The old doctor looked down at her. He did not seem surprised. “Home’s a good place to be,” he said.
“It’s where I belong,” she replied.
He nodded, “Yes,” again, his old brown hands on the wheel, turning it deftly to avoid a sudden hump, his eyes upon the road ahead. Old Doc’ Franklin, riding the roads of Stag County from horseback and saddlebag days down to gasolene and Ford cars. Old Doc’ Franklin, riding the roads of life down at the heart of the world; present in the great moments of existence, in the agony of birth, in the hour of death; sent for in haste and terror in the catastrophe of pain; forgotten in the times of health. Old Doc’ Franklin—you don’t fool him and you don’t shock him. Tolerant, elemental, undeceived, and faithful; familiar alike with the ravings of delirium tremens and with the prayers of dying saints; as uncritical of both as life itself, or the showers of God—old Doc’ Franklin. He hadn’t made the world—not he. Why should he judge or condemn? He helped people into life if they wished to come, and he helped them out again when they had to go; but how they behaved while here was none of his business. His job was to meet each need that the day presented, patient, forbearing, pitiful, mending where he could. Old Doc’ Franklin—gnarled, and weathered, and lined, like an apple tree on a bleak hillside; but sound and deep-rooted still.
Sitting beside him in his mud-splashed car, with the mountains on either side, the sky above, and the road before them, Julie was almost as simple, direct, and deep-rooted now as he was himself. Ahead, along the Easter road, the Chapin man was dead, the mother and the son desperately ill. Sorrow and disaster awaited them: suffering people and a distracted house. Here was something that they might do, work for them down at the heart of the world, work for them that was natural, sincere, and pitiful.