“I’m so glad!” she cried.
“Why?” I asked.
She darted a look at me, with twinkling eyes. “I shan’t tell you,” she said.
I got a trowel, and we planted the withered trilliums in partial shade between the maples and the pines, and gave them water. Then I showed her the newly sown lawn, and we peeped in to see the Hiroshiges over the twin fires.
“Now, home and to bed for you,” I cried. “I know you’ve done too much.”
“I know I’ve had a wonderful time,” she answered soberly. “I’ve–I’ve–it’s hard to explain–but I’ve somehow connected up this house with the wild country about it. Do you understand? If I had a house in the country, I should want it where I could get out, this way, on a Sunday afternoon into the woods and bring home trilliums. It wouldn’t seem right, complete, if I couldn’t. I’d want my own dear garden, and then a great big, God’s garden over the fence somewhere.”
“That is how I feel, too,” said I. “Only I want, also, to connect up my place with my neighbours; I want myself to be a part of the human environment. I thought of that this morning, as I saw the folks going by to church. If I ever get Twin Fires done, I’m going to join the Grange!”
“But Twin Fires comes first, doesn’t it? I fear I’ve been selfish to drag you off to-day.”
“Drag me off is good!” I laughed. “You poor little city-bred, you, as if your enjoyment hadn’t given me the happiest day of my life! Only I’m afraid you did too much.”
“I am pretty tired,” she admitted, with a happy smile. “But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”