“Would you mind telling me a little about Brookhollow?” she ventured.
Certainly he would tell her. He laid aside his plate 317 and tea cup and told her of his visits there when he had walked over from Neeland’s Mills in the pleasant summer weather.
Nothing had changed, he assured her; mill-dam and pond and bridge, and the rushing creek below were exactly as she knew them; her house stood there at the crossroads, silent and closed in the sunshine, and under the high moon; pickerel and sunfish still haunted the shallow pond; partridges still frequented the alders and willows across her pasture; fireflies sailed through the summer night; and the crows congregated in the evening woods and talked over the events of the day.
“And my cat? You wrote that you would take care of Adoniram.”
“Adoniram is an aged patriarch and occupies the place of honour in my father’s house,” he said.
“He is well?”
“Oh, yes. He prefers his food cut finely, that is all.”
“I don’t suppose he will live very long.”
“He’s pretty old,” admitted Neeland.
She sighed and looked out of the window at the kitten in the garden. And, after an interval of silence: