The faint, tender light from the golden west in which the new moon lay, showed the roof and tower of the little church, Kenneth’s first beautiful work; and Kenneth told them how pleasant it was up at Miss Arabel’s, and of the tame squirrels that he fed at his window, and of the shady pasture-path that led away over the brook from the very door, and up among pines and into little still nooks where dry mossy turf and warm gray rocks were sheltered in by scraggy cedars and lisping birches, so that they were like field-parlors opening in and out from each other with all sorts of little winding and climbing passages, between clumps of bayberry bushes and tall ferns; and that the girls from Z——­ and Westover made morning picnics there, since Lucilla Waters had grown intimate with Delia Waite and found it out; and that Delia Waite and even Miss Arabel carried their dressmaking down there sometimes in a big white basket, and stayed all day under the trees.  They had never used to do this; they had stayed in the old back sitting room with all the litter round, and never thought of it till those girls had come and showed them how.

“I think there is the best and sweetest neighborliness and most beautiful living here in Z——­, that I ever knew in any place,” said Kenneth Kincaid; “except that little piece of the same thing in Aspen Street.”

Kenneth had found out how Rosamond Holabird recognized Aspen Street as a piece of her world.

Desire hated, as he spoke, her spitefulness last night; what she had said to herself of “so many Ruths;” why could not she not be pleased to come into this beautiful living and make a little part of it?

She was pleased; she would be; she found it very easy when Kenneth said to her in that frank intimate way,—­“I wish you and your mother would come over and see what Dorris will want, and help me a little about that room of hers.  I told Miss Waite not to bother; just to let the old things stand,—­I knew Dorris would like them,—­and anything else I would get for her myself.  I mean Dolly shall take a long vacation this year; from June right through to September; and its ‘no end of jolly,’ as those English fellows say, that you have come too!”

Kenneth Kincaid was fresher and pleasanter and younger himself, than Desire had ever seen him before; he seemed to have forgotten that hard way of looking at the world; he had found something so undeniably good in it.  I am afraid Desire had rather liked him for his carping, which was what he least of all deserved to be liked for.  It showed how high and pure his demands were; but his praise and admissions were better; it is always better to discern good than to fret at the evil.

“I shall see you every day,” he said, when he shook hands at parting; “and Helena, if you want a squirrel to keep in your pocket next winter, I’ll begin training one for you at once.”

He had taken them right to himself, as if they belonged to him; he spoke as if he were very glad that he should see them every day.