The old folk were called to the back porch. At the same time I heard the mother say, “Show the man your doll.”
And in came the little daughter like thistledown.
We were in that white room at opposite ends of the long table, and nothing but the immaculate cloth stretching between us. She sat with the doll clutched to her breast, looking straight into my eyes, the doll staring at me also. The girl was such a piece of bewitchment that the poem I brought to her about the magical Tree of Laughing Bells seemed tame to me, and everyday. That foolish rhyme was soon read and put into her hands. It seemed to give her an infinite respect for me. And any human creature loves to be respected.
On the back porch the talking grew louder.
“Papa is telling them he wants to rent the rest of the farm and move us all to town,” explained Gretchen.
It was the soft voice of the young wife we heard: “Of course it will be nice to be nearer my church.”
And then the young father’s voice: “And I don’t want Gretchen to grow up on the farm.”
And the old man’s voice, still nobly intoned: “And as I say, I don’t want to be stub-born, but I don’t want to cross the coun-ty line.”
Gretchen banged the door on them and we crossed the county line indeed. We told each other fairy-tales while the unheeded murmur of debate went on.
When it came Gretchen’s turn, she alternated Grimm, and Hans Andersen and the legends of the Roman Church. I had left the railroad resolved to talk some one to death, and now with all my heart I was listening. She knew the tales I had considered my special discoveries in youth: “The Amber Witch,” “The Enchanted Horse,” “The Two Brothers.” She also knew that most pious narrative, Elsie Dinsmore. She approved when I told her I had found it not only sad but helpful in my spiritual life. She had found it just so in hers.