“Abroad?” echoed the other. “Ever been abroad?”
“Oh, yes, several times. I’ve been all around over there. But I like this country better, don’t you?”
“I ain’t ever been in any other—yet,” laughed John. “But I’m going some day. I’m going to England and Turkey and the Holy Land. And maybe Holland. Ever been in Holland?”
“Not to stay very long. I liked the South of France best of all. We stayed there all one winter when I was about ten.”
“Ever been to Turkey or Palestine?”
“No, I never have. I suppose you’re a good deal older than I am, aren’t you?”
“Fourteen last March,” answered John. “I cal’late you’re about twelve, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m thirteen. You seem—older than fourteen. I guess that’s Doctor Webster’s house.”
They had come to a rustic gate beyond which stood a small brick house with a red slate, many-gabled roof. Virginia creeper almost hid the lower story and shrubs were massed thickly under the windows. There was a lawn in front and a great bed of scarlet sage followed the upper curve of the drive.