Judith was silent from sheer happiness. Her work was so little, but so dear: Roger and Marion always understood; she was no more shy with them about her stories than about her thoughts; she gave herself to them utterly, as she had given herself to her mother.
The parsonage at Meadow Centre was in Meadow Centre; it was not in a village, or a ville; it was not in any place, but its own place, where it stood; the church was the nearest building, the post-office was two miles distant; there were farm-houses scattered about for miles; the most distant parishioner lived three miles from the church.
The parsonage, built of wood and stone, a story and a half, with the trumpet vine climbing luxuriously to its low roof, had passed its birthday of three-score years and ten. It was old, and it looked as if it felt old.
The gate was swung wide open, the path leading to the closed front door was weed-grown, the flower beds on each side of the path were a mass of wild, bright bloom.
“How pretty! How like a picture!” exclaimed Judith, in admiration; “there’s a grape-vine running up an apple tree, and there’s the old oaken bucket. What a pity for no one to live here.”
“Somebody stays here,” said Roger.
“Is it the parsonage? How can they neglect it so?”
“Whoa, Daisy. The farmers are all busy. King should learn to use a scythe, and a lawn-mower; he’s a born hermit. If he wanted to he could find a housekeeper; he forgets he hasn’t any.”
“But there’s no one at home.”
“Oh, yes, he’s at home. He’s expecting me. The study is in the rear; he lives in that.”