“Oh, you poor chicks!” said his mother.  She must hear about the Sturgis Water Line, and hints of the Maestro, and how wonderful Phil had been, teaching Kirk and all, and how perfectly magnificent Kirk was altogether—­a jumbled rigamarole of salvaged motor-boats, reclaimed farm-house, music, somebody’s son at sea, and dear knows what else, till Mrs. Sturgis hardly knew whether or not any of this wild dream was verity.  Yet the train—­and later, the trolley-car—­continued to roll through unfamiliar country, and Mrs. Sturgis resigned herself trustfully to her son’s keeping.

At the Asquam Station, Hop was drawn up with his antiquated surrey.  He wore a sprig of goldenrod in his buttonhole, and goldenrod bobbed over the old horse’s forelock.

“Proud day, ma’am,” said Hop, as Ken helped his mother into the wagon, “Proud day, I’m sure.”

“As if I were a wedding or something,” whispered Mrs. Sturgis.  “Ken, I’m excited!”

She looked all about at the unwinding view up Winterbottom Road—­so familiar to Ken, who was trying to see it all with fresh eyes.  They climbed out at the gate of the farm, and Hop turned his beast and departed.  Half-way up the sere dooryard, Ken touched his wondering mother’s arm and drew her to a standstill.  There lay Applegate Farm, tucked like a big gray boulder between its two orchards.  Asters, blue and white, clustered thick to its threshold, honeysuckle swung buff trumpets from the vine about the windows.  The smoke from the white chimney rose and drifted lazily away across the russet meadow, which ended at the once mysterious hedge.  The place was silent with the silence of a happy dream, basking content in the hazy sunlight of the late September afternoon.

Mrs. Sturgis, with a little sound of surprised delight, was about to move forward again, when her son checked her once more.  For as she looked, Kirk came to the door.  He was carrying a pan and a basket.  He felt for the sill with a sandaled toe, descended to the wide door-stone, and sat down upon it with the pan on his knees.  He then proceeded to shell Lima beans, his face lifted to the sun, and the wind stirring the folds of his faded green blouse.  As he worked he sang a perfectly original song about various things.

Mrs. Sturgis could be detained no longer.  She ran across the brown grass and caught Kirk into her arms—­tin pan, bean-pods, and all.  She kissed his mouth, and his hair, and his eyes, and murmured ecstatically to him.

“Mother! Mother!” Kirk cried, his hands everywhere at once; and then, “Phil! Quick!”

But Phil was there.  When the Sturgis family, breathless, at last sorted themselves out, every one began talking at once.

“Don’t you really think it’s a nice place?”

“You came sooner than we expected; we meant to be at the gate.”

“Oh, my dear dears!”

“Mother, come in now and see everything!” (This from Kirk, anxious to exhibit what he himself had never seen.)